Broken Soldiers
by fyre
Summary: G.I. Blair vs Cobra? Does Jim ever get to eat his pancakes? Better yet, does *Detective* Jim get a bloody CLUE! Sequel to CASUALTIES OF WAR and COVERT OPERATIONS AU Slight Crossover


BROKEN SOLDIERS  
by fyresong  
  
REVISED: 12/7/2000  
  
FEEDBACK: a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com  
  
TEASER: G.I. Blair vs Cobra? Does Jim ever get to eat his pancakes? Better yet, does  
*Detective* Jim get a bloody CLUE?! Sequel to CASUALTIES OF WAR and COVERT  
OPERATIONS  
  
ARCHIVE: Guide Posts, Cascade Library. Everyone else please ask.  
  
TIME LINE/CATEGORY: Post Sentinel Too part 2. Alternate Universe Part 3 of a longer  
series. Crossover: Stargate SG-1 (but Sentinel not Stargate is my focus people so no worries!)  
  
RATING: PG-13 More swearing. Some mention/hint of torture.  
  
DISCLAIMER: No major plot-lines, characters, setting, or major events alluded to in this story  
are mine in any way. Pet Fly, Paramount, and UPN own these guys. StarGate SG-1 and its  
characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double  
Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. Some of the dialogue is pulled straight from the TV  
show for the sake of continuity and is thus logically NOT mine. No money is being made off this  
story. Please ask author before reproducing or posing anywhere else.   
  
SPECIAL THANKS TO: Everyone in the SenFan universe for writing to let me know just how  
welcome I am here and how much they wanted this story to continue (especially the Pester Queen  
herself, Lila and her pointy sticks.) Detailed comments about what you guys liked helped me write  
this one.   
  
NOTES: I'm dyslexic so any grammar or spelling mistakes that got by I humbly apologize for.  
Either that or they are intentional for sake of higher semantic meaning, syntax be hanged! grin  
Set Post Sentinel Too part 2. I mixed in Murder 101 for good measure. This is also taking place  
after StarGate SG-1's Shades of Grey during third season.   
  
***  
  
Someone was shaking him.  
  
"Jim? You awake?" a rough voice asked.  
  
There was a warm hand on his shoulder. The voice was familiar, but it wasn't the one he wanted  
to hear, the one who had whispered to him as he fell asleep. He smelled . . . cigars?  
  
"Hmm? Simon?" he murmured, twitching and finding himself tucked into a plush seat. He forced  
his eyes to open.  
  
Sure enough, his captain was staring down at him, worry evident in those dark brown eyes despite  
the gruff, perfunctory tone. "We've landed. You want to help me here, detective?" the larger  
man asked as he tugged away the blanket and tackled the seatbelt.  
  
"Sure, sure," Jim agreed, slightly lost. *Where was Sandburg?* he wondered absently as he tried  
and failed to stand while the plane was still moving smoothly across the runway. "Whoa!" he  
exclaimed. "That stuff knocked me for a loop."  
  
Helping now by propping him up, Simon got his detective vertical. "Sandburg said you'd sleep it  
off. Nothing worse than some dizziness and some nausea."  
  
"That's--" Ellison broke off to yawn, "--good. B'for I forget, thanks for finding me."  
  
Simon had an odd, unreadable look on his face. If he didn't know better, Jim would think it   
was . . . *embarrassment? Weird!*   
  
"The drugs are messing with your head. I told you before detective, I had nothing to do with it.   
It was Sandburg's rescue, top to bottom. I don't know how he did it, or where he got the stuff,  
but Jim, he was acting like . . . " Banks trailed off, at a loss of how to finish the thought with any  
sort of coherency that wouldn't have him sounding, well, like *Blair.*  
  
Jim blinked at this, and thought back fuzzily to the base he'd been dragged through, the guards,  
the airmen. "Sandburg?!" he echoed in amazement, louder that he expected. The others from  
Major Crimes-- he'd just noticed them in the back part of the cabin --looked at him. Megan was  
still shooting him dirty looks, the others seemed to be in various stated of exhaustion and shock.  
  
"Yes, Ellison. *Sandburg.*" Simon confirmed snidely as he helped the Sentinel on with his  
jacket. "Who happens to know a lot more than any of us give him credit for. I called him up to  
tell him you were missing after you didn't show up to work. He already knew; he already knew  
who, how, and why. *He* found you," the Captain pointed out in irritation, but whether he was  
angry at Jim for doubting his partner or his own disbelief, Simon wasn't sure. *Hell, you've  
doubted the kid's-- MAN'S ability since day one.* "We invited ourselves along for the rescue  
mission."  
  
"You're serious," Jim said with surprise.  
  
"Of course I'm serious!" Simon roared and then quickly tampered down on his anger. He was  
more angry at himself than Ellison. One look at the thin figure of the anthropologist who seemed  
to be burning up on the inside was enough to shake even the most steady of men. "Are you  
having trouble with your . . . uh . . . senses? Look around for God's sake!" Simon ordered,  
taking his hand off of Ellison's elbow long enough to wave around at the crates and equipment  
scattered about.  
  
It didn't take years in the Army to recognize the stuff. "W-what the hell?" Jim breathed, trying to  
put the pieces together in his mind as he sank back in his seat. *Sandburg is responsible for all  
this?*  
  
("Lieutenant? Good job."  
  
"Coming from you sir, I think that actually may mean something."  
  
"Smart ass punk. Go on. Get out of here before you're caught."  
  
"Sir, yes, sir.")  
  
That's what the colonel had said, to *his* partner.  
  
Lieutenant.  
  
("You gonna make it out okay kid?" )  
  
Blair Sandburg?  
  
("It was Sandburg's rescue, top to bottom.")  
  
Good job.  
  
Blair . . . *Jacobs?*  
  
Lieutenant.  
  
("Look around for God's sake!")  
  
Good *job?*  
  
"Fuck!" Jim hissed and rubbed his hand over his eyes.  
  
"My point exactly," Simon muttered in agreement as he gathered his own coat and belongings.  
  
The plane's intercom crackled even as the aircraft taxied to a halt. The voice Jim had been   
looking for now filled the cabin. "Hello, this is your Captain speaking. We've landed, and as far  
as I can tell there are no tanks, machine guns, and squads of Uncle Sam's finest waiting to greet us  
with open arms, not to mention tear gas, and imminent threats of death. On behalf of my  
impeccably dressed co-pilot, thank you for flying Sandburg/Rafe Air; please don't trip on your  
way out."  
  
Joel and Henri chuckled as they heard the announcement. Simon glanced over his men, and  
woman before staring out a window, but addressing his remarks to Jim. "He's been like that since  
I called him. He's . . . not right. He's not *Blair,*" Simon added glaring down at his detective as  
if it was Jim's fault.  
  
Which it *was.*  
  
But that didn't stop the instinctive rush at self-defense and rationalization. "Why do you think I  
called Mark?" Ellison asked indignantly.  
  
"You called him and then you let the kid- fuck, the *man* leave?" Banks countered pulling out a  
cigar from his coat pocket.  
  
Flustered, Jim sought frantically for the right words to *explain, dammit! Blair would  
understand. Blair did understand,* Jim counseled himself. *He understood when we talked over  
the phone.* "I have-I have no right to tell him what to do."  
  
Bitting harshly on the cigar, Simon brought his lighter to the tip. "I'm not asking you to tell him  
what to do," he replied harshly. "Pull yourself together or the miracle at the fountain won't be  
worth shit," he hissed.  
  
The words hit Jim like a slap in the face. He pulled back physically, and paled. He looked up at  
the sound of his friend coming out of the cockpit, and Blair's appearance untainted by sedatives  
was shocking.  
  
Short hair, butchered curls, left his eyes twice as large in the angular, stubbled face. A smudge of  
dirt highlighted one cheekbone. Stained fatigues hung on a too thin frame, all wiry muscle and  
jutting bones. It was painful to see. It was painful to *hear.* The lungs strained audibly even to  
those without Sentinel hearing, and Sandburg's pallor spoke of low grade fever and exhaustion,  
eyes glassily bright. He'd been keeping bronchitis away since Mexico with medication; this rescue  
had obviously taxed what precious little reserves Sandburg had left. It made the Sentinel want to  
grab his Guide and wrap him up in blankets and sit on him until he held still and slept. It made the  
Sentinel want to scold and yell and curse his friend for being *careless, and damn stupid! How  
could you let yourself get like this? You said you were taking your medication and sleeping!   
Dammit Sandburg!*   
  
It made Jim want to crawl off somewhere and cry because *it's all my fault!*   
  
Blair smiled seeing his Sentinel awake, but it wasn't a Sandburg Special, only a pale imitation of  
an everyday grin. "Hey, you're awake," the anthropologist lately turned commando said hoarsely.  
  
"Chief." It was the only word that would come out, in a shocked low voice. It had only been,  
what? a week since he'd last seen his friend and Blair looked closer to death than he had in the  
hospital.  
  
"Everyone ready to go?" Blair called.  
  
A chorus of ragged, tired yells came from the rear of the cabin.  
  
Henri peered out of a window. "Uh where are we? This doesn't look like Cascade."  
  
"San Diego. I've got to return the plane here since we're done with it, that was the   
arrang--" The words broke off, a coughing fit robbing Blair of words, of breath. The cops as a  
whole seemed to hold their breath along with their former unofficial member, unable to breathe  
until he did. Rafe, held him upright and Jim had no doubt that each and every one of them  
matched Brian's pale, anxious worry. "Scuse me," Blair continued, gasping. "Arrangement."  
  
Arrangement. A previous arrangement. To return the plane to *San Diego.*  
  
*But he said he was coming home!* part of Jim wailed in confusion. *He said!*  
  
"You okay Sandy?" Megan asked in a small voice.  
  
"Sure," he said, waving it off with one hand, nodding his thanks at Rafe before pulling away.   
"You guys'll stay at the house tonight. I've got tickets for all of you for tomorrow afternoon."  
  
"Sounds just fine," Joel said, stretching. "Man, I could use some sack time."  
  
There was a sudden pounding on the door causing everyone to jump. Ellison cursed himself for  
not hearing the intruder approach.  
  
"Hey Jacobs," a voice called from outside. "You in there?"  
  
Blair took two steps to his right and yanked the door open, holding out his hand to help the  
visitor in. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here."  
  
The petite Asian woman looked over the aircraft with a proprietorial eye. "She do okay?"  
  
"Yep. Thanks Jubi," Blair said with a grin. "I know it was short notice--"  
  
"No problem. I owed *you* remember?" she replied with a wink and a gentle brush to the  
anthropologist's shoulder. Going over to the nearest opened crate, she began to carefully but  
swiftly repack the equipment. "Cars are waitin' dude. Go home and sleep, you look like you need  
it."  
  
"Thanks man." Reaching out automatically to help Jim back to his feet, beating Simon to the  
punch, Blair led the way out of the plane. "C'mon, grab you stuff guys, it's a half hour drive to  
Carlsbad."  
  
***  
  
Jim awoke this time to the sound of waves, the smell of sea salt. He stretched underneath the  
covers and stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling.  
  
He barely remembered the half hour drive on the interstate to Carlsbad. Blair had been there, he  
remembered that. Blair had gotten him something to drink, some aspirin, rubbed antibacterial  
cream on his raw wrists and ankles all the while murmuring steadily, a constant low rhythm like  
his heart, like the sea.  
  
Jim hadn't slept this well since before he'd been shot at the convenience store.  
  
Turning his head, he stared out of the floor to ceiling windows and porch doors that wrapped  
around the three bedroom beach house. The sky was just beginning to lighten, sea gulls began to  
cry. It was morning.  
  
Testing the dials, he eased his hearing up and stretched out to check on the occupants of the  
house. Megan was asleep next door, tossing and turning, a restless sleeper. In the other room  
Simon lay snoring, oblivious to the world. Reaching for what the echoes of breathing told his  
senses was the living room (who would have thought Sandburg's bat trick could be so useful?) he  
heard/felt Joel on the sofa, and Rafe and Henri on the floor in sleeping bags. Henri seemed to be  
dreaming about penguins.  
  
*Ooookay! More than I wanted to know,* Jim thought with a grin, which faded when he realized  
that Blair's heartbeat was missing, Blair wasn't here.  
  
Sitting up quickly, ignoring the dizziness and pushing the blankets to the floor, Ellison stood.   
Staring anxiously around the room as if that would magically make Sandburg appear, Jim noticed  
the chair beside his bed and the indentation of a person on the fabric. He ran his hand over the  
chair and felt the residual heat clinging to it. Whoever had been sitting there, (and his sense of  
smell told him it had been Blair) had either left his vigil very recently or slept there the whole  
night.  
  
Sending his hearing spiraling out of the house, slightly uncomfortable doing it without Sandburg  
there to steady him, anchor his hearing so he didn't get lost in the pounding surf, he searched . . .   
  
There! Down near the water. Opening his eyes he grabbed his robe that someone had  
considerately brought with them from Cascade and left at the foot of his bed, and heading towards  
the porch door, he pushed it open, and barefoot, dressed only in sweats and the robe he walked  
down the beach to find his friend.  
  
Sandburg sat, arms loosely around his knees, watching the beat of the waves on the sand, short  
hair barely stirring in the wind.  
  
Slowly, as to not aggravate the remaining dizziness, Jim approached and dropped down beside  
Blair, mimicking his pose.  
  
"Morning," Sandburg offered, eyes never leaving the wheeling birds, the ocean.  
  
"Good morning Chief," Jim replied, trying to stare at the water and not at his drastically altered  
Guide. "It's a nice place," he said vaguely. *Hardly a great conversation opener Ellison! Can we  
be any more obvious?*  
  
"Shouldn't you--" Blair broke off to hack up what sounded like his entire left lung. Jim had to  
restrain himself from doing obsessively unhelpful things like ordering his partner to breathe or  
pounding him on the back. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" Blair asked at last.  
  
Jim scowled at that. "Shouldn't you?" he shot back.  
  
Blair finally turned to look at him, a wry grin touching his lips. "Okay, so we'll both ignore our  
screaming bodies together."  
  
Grumbling internally at that the detective rummaged through his mind, trying to figure out how to  
bring up his multitudinous questions and worries without sounding parental and overbearing or  
agitating his sick, stubborn friend. "You're not staying with a friend," he said finally. It was the  
only nonthreatening statement he could come up with at the moment. Blair had said he was  
staying with friends, and that had alleviated the protective side of the Sentinel, but now he found  
his partner alone. Blair hadn't told him the truth, had obfuscated for what the little idiot probably  
believed was the "greater good."   
  
"No I'm not," Blair agreed, not the least bit perturbed that his Sentinel caught him lying. "This  
place belongs to a friend of mine named Mark Lanceton. Maybe you know him, he's an Army  
shrink."  
  
Jim blinked in surprise. "You know Mark?" he asked in astonishment. For all Blair's acceptance  
at the Police Station he'd never had any illusions that he and Sandburg moved in the same circles.   
They came from different worlds. At least that's what Jim thought.  
  
("Lieutenant? Good job.")  
  
"His kid brother was with me in Peru," Jim explained, hoping that opening up himself would get  
Sandburg talking.  
  
Blair snorted. "If you start signing "It's a Small World" I will be forced to hit you."  
  
Jim found himself smiling despite the lack of reaction he wanted. *Okay, that didn't work.* "He  
didn't mention you when I called him at the airport," Jim continued.  
  
Blair shot him a measured glance and Ellison inwardly winced. He remembered the first time he'd  
offered Sandburg the opportunity to see the department shrink, it was after Lash. Blair had flat  
out refused. Subsequent conversations had led to an uneasy truce on the subject; Ellison wouldn't  
interfere with his partner's mental health treatment if any, though he was free to hint at it until the  
cows came home, not that Blair ever listened.   
  
  
("I've been in and out of therapy since I got out of my pampers.")  
  
("Anxiety and panic attacks are a normal state of being for me.")  
  
Jim had just admitted he'd broken their agreement. Surprisingly, Blair didn't say a word, even  
after Ellison had called him on his own obfuscations. *All right, all right! I get it, Darwin. I  
don't get uptight about that, you let this issue drop.*   
  
The anthropologist looked back at the ocean. "You probably referred to me as Sandburg the  
whole time though."  
  
"Instead of Jacobs?" Okay, that was an outright declaration of verbal warfare between them,  
Ellison having the first sneak attack on Issues Not To Be Touched With a 1000 Foot Pole. Jim  
braced himself for a counterattack.  
  
But Blair only nodded, the emotionless calm unbreachable. It chilled Jim to the bone. "Instead of  
Jacobs," he agreed as he stood up and dusted sand off his cargo pants. "I'm gonna make pancakes  
for the guys. What do you wanna eat?" he asked, helping Jim to his feet when the larger man  
swayed precariously.  
  
"What? I don't get pancakes?" Jim asked indignantly, letting the subject slide, *for the moment,*  
he thought.  
  
"You get oatmeal." Blair raised one warning finger when the detective opened his mouth to  
protest. "The last time a sedative effected you so deeply you couldn't keep anything down,  
remember?" Sandburg turned and headed back to the house, Jim following.  
  
Jim sulked. He knew it looked somewhat ridiculous on an ex-ranger, but Carolyn always thought  
it was adorable. "I'd rather have pancakes," he said hopefully.  
  
Blair entered the living room, stepping over the bodies of Rafe and H., and into the kitchen. "Am  
I Guide to a Sentinel or seven year old?"  
  
Ellison followed and found Simon already communing with the coffee machine, Sandburg pulling  
eggs and milk out of the fridge.  
  
"Morning," the police captain grunted.  
  
"Morning Simon," Blair called from inside the pantry cupboard.  
  
"Morning sir," Jim said as he eased himself down at the kitchen table, watching the rest of Major  
Crimes awaken and stumble from living room to one of the two bathrooms not currently occupied  
by Megan.  
  
"Umm Hair- uh Blair?" Henri's voice called from the hallway.  
  
"Yeah Brown?" The student replied cracking egg after egg in the bowl.  
  
H. stuck his head around the kitchen doorway. "You know that your speaker phone has been  
savaged right?"  
  
"Oh." Blair blinked and put down the bowl and went to see what Brown was talking about.   
Catching sight of the mess on the floor by the occupied bathroom, he nodded. His curls still lay  
carpeting the rub, the scissors impaled in the speaker phone. "Yeah. I knew that," he assured the  
detective before returning to his cooking, ignoring Rafe and H.'s worried glances. "Don't throw  
the hair out. We'll put it on the beach and leave it for the birds to use in their nests."  
  
Megan came out of the other bathroom in a cloud of steam, toweling her hair. "My dad used to  
say that when my hair was cut."  
  
"Naomi did too. You want chocolate chips in your pancakes?"  
  
"They get chocolate chip pancakes?" Ellison protested indignantly.  
  
"Whining is unbecoming a detective James. Have some with your oatmeal," Blair responded  
placing the bowl before his friend, along with the milk, brown and white sugar, banana, raisins,  
honey, and cream it would take to get the Sentinel to eat the mush. "Hey Joel."  
  
"Morning Blair," the former bomb squad captain greeted him, patting him on the shoulder and  
leaning in to smell the cooking. "Those smell great."  
  
Simon, whose watching of the percolator had finally paid off, inhaled the rich aroma of gourmet  
coffee and rejoined the land of the verbal. "So our flight leaves around 11 a.m. right?"  
  
"Uh-huh," Sandburg said as he expertly flipped his creations, and Henri came in and took a seat.  
  
Simon took an experimental sip and sighed in contentment. "Thanks for the tickets Sandburg. I'll  
make sure the department reimburses you for all of them. And . . . uh, for the supplies as well."  
  
"No need for that. Got 'em on loan so to speak. You want one or two Brian?" Blair asked as  
Rafe joined the table, and he began serving.  
  
"Two please." Rafe slathered the lot with whipped cream and took a bite. "Mmmmm."  
  
Jim looked up from his oatmeal and growled. "Oh, rub it in."  
  
"How're you feeling Jim?" Simon asked.  
  
"Better. Really, really better," he hinted aloud as the pancakes passed by, but it was in vain; his  
plate was still pancakeless.  
  
Blair snorted his disbelief, and didn't fall for the pouting.  
  
Tucking in, Joel swallowed and asked "So when will you guys be heading back to Cascade?"  
  
There was a sudden, complete moment of silence around the table. Joel looked up and realized  
his mistake. He'd been so used to talking about Ellison and Sandburg as if they were one entity,  
one person with one set of plans and goals. He'd forgotten it wasn't like that anymore.  
  
Blair took his own seat and answered causally, breaking the tension. "Well my defense date isn't  
for a week yet. I was planning to stick around here until then."  
  
Jim forced himself to try some of the mush and agreed. "Sounds good."  
  
"Well Jim, you're on paid sick leave until then," Simon concluded in true managerial fashion,  
always having the last word, closing the uncomfortable subject. *No need to get indigestion over  
breakfast.*  
  
"Hey Sandburg." Brown piped up, his pancakes all but inhaled moments before. "You think I  
could have a copy of your diss? I wanna see what you did with all those interviews and statistics  
and stuff."  
  
Blair took a sip of milk before teasing "You sure you're not just looking for the chapter devoted  
to your heroic deeds so you can impress Sharleen?"   
  
"No, I feel that knowing more about my personal collective subjectivity would enhance my  
working relationship with my compatriots."  
  
Snickers broke out around the table. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone use the word   
subjectivity except Sandy." Megan said with a laugh.  
  
"You are so full of it," Rafe said.  
  
"Maybe," H. allowed.  
  
"Simon's got a copy," Blair finally relented with a grin. "If you want, you can copy his."  
  
"Feel free to detective," Banks said. "I'm thinking of making it required reading. It was really . . .  
insightful Sandburg. You did a good job." The words came out as if every single one had been a  
struggle. Blair appreciated the compliment for what it was worth: a lot. He gave Simon a  
wonderful, shy grin of thanks. Banks wasn't one for spontaneous declarations of good will  
without a damn good reason.   
  
Simon looked away feeling guilty.  
  
("I mean, I'm the first one to admit Sandburg has his faults . . .")   
  
("Look, I know the kid helps you with this Sentinel thing, but he is not one of us. Maybe it's time  
you should think about cutting him loose.")  
  
*He makes me pancakes and I have to force a damn "good job." Shit!*  
  
"I'd like to see it too," Joel announced.  
  
"Me too," agreed Megan.  
  
Rafe leaned over to Blair. "Once you get your doctorate we've got to throw you a party."  
  
"A biiig one!" H. elaborated, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
A chorus of agreement sounded around the table.  
  
"All right, lets not leave this place a mess," Simon grumped, looking at his watch. *Enough of  
the emotional crap. We have a plane to catch.* "Rafe you soap, H. your rinse, Megan you dry.   
Joel clear the table."  
  
"And what about you sir?" Blair asked innocently as he started on his fruit salad.  
  
"I'm going to go out and enjoy the view, rest, relax, smoke, and try to slow down my heart from  
yet another wild ride through the Sandburg Zone!" Simon growled. "You have a problem with  
that *Lieutenant*?"  
  
"No Simon."  
  
"Lieutenant?" Joel whispered to Megan as he handed her a plate, but loud enough for Jim, who'd  
been watching the whole proceedings, feeling slightly guilty, slightly left out.  
  
"I'll tell you later," the Inspector whispered.  
  
*I've got no reason to feel guilty,* Ellison reminded himself. *Blair chose to change his  
dissertation to help me. I didn't force him. I wasn't even looking forward to anyone else  
knowing about my abilities. But then why do I feel like a kid who's birthday had just been  
forgotten?*   
  
"Jim, you finished?"   
  
Ellison looked up abruptly from his empty bowl. "Uh . . . yeah Joel. Thanks."  
  
***  
  
The mass exodus of Major Crimes back to Cascade was a frantic affair of yelling, and rushing  
back and forth between the car, the bathroom, and the house. *I feel like a den mother,* Simon  
thought chewing on his lit cigar with a sigh. He looked up from where he sat on the porch swing  
as Jim joined him, facing the driveway, the ocean at their backs.  
  
"The kid looks like hell Ellison," Simon said without preamble. "Do something about it  
detective."  
  
*Why don't you do something about it, Captain?* a voice whispered in the back of his mind.   
He swallowed hard. Maybe this wasn't entirely Ellison's fault.  
  
("It's not him I'm worried about,")  
  
Well he damn well should worry about Sandburg. *He may just be an observer, or a former  
observer, but didn't he drop everything and come looking for you and Daryl in Peru? Help  
bridge the gap between you and your son? Save your life a few times? Crack cases? Fix your  
computer? Do research unpaid for Major Crimes?*  
  
It was definitely time to do something about that. Banks was a man who paid his debts, and he  
owed a large one to the anthropologist inside the beach house.  
  
"Yes sir," Jim replied, the good solider that he was.  
  
Banks stood and glared at his best detective, making sure he got the message that this was an  
order and he expected results by the time they were back in Cascade. "See you back at work  
then." The captain turned and began organizing his troops. "All right then! Get your asses in  
gear lady and gentlemen. We're on a schedule here!"  
  
With a few waves and hasty goodbyes, the car drove off leaving Jim and Blair alone at the beach  
house.  
  
Sandburg came to lean against the doorframe. "Looks like it's just you and me."  
  
Ellison nodded. "Looks like."  
  
"Time to change those bandages," he said, opening the door behind him and leading the way back  
into the sunlit living room. Jim sat on the comfortable couch, Blair pulling out fresh bandages and  
ointment, a bowl of lukewarm water, and a soft cloth. Unwrapping the bandages around the  
wrists, seeing the area inflamed from the rough material of the restrains, Blair peered at his friend.   
"You feeling okay?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"You don't mind being here do you?" Blair asked abruptly. "I can drive you to the airport  
y'know."  
  
"No, here is fine Chief," Jim assured him as he carefully washed the wounds and spread  
antibacterial cream on them. "Mark let you stay here before?" Jim queried, his eyes glued to  
Sandburg's hands as they continued their ministrations.  
  
Blair shrugged. "Some years ago he let Jack drag me out here for a couple of weeks. Get my  
head together, process, stuff like that. It's a good place to do it. It's not the mountains but it's  
good." The anthropologist shifted to his knees down on the floor and began checking the  
abrasions on the detective's ankles.  
  
"Jack . . . Jack O'Neill the guy at the base? That Jack?" Jim asked as nonchalantly as he could. He  
was trying not to be jealous. Really.   
  
("Lieutenant? Good job.")   
  
But that Jack guy just rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn't sure why yet, but for some reason  
Ellison felt as if they were in silent competition with each other.  
  
"Yep." Blair must have noticed the slightly angry look on the detective's face and misread it as  
pain because he asked "That hurt?"  
  
Jim shook his head, wanting to stay on topic. *Sandburg was always trying to change the  
subject.* "Who you know from time spend in the military, *lieutenant?*" he pressed, and then  
immediately felt sorry he did when the student's eyes snapped up to meet his, blue eyes dark with  
a brief flash of irritation before it was gone.   
  
"Something like that," Blair allowed in a bland, blank tone, sitting back, job complete. "Better?"  
  
"Are you going to tell me?" he asked, coming straight to the point. He wanted to know the  
details so he could know more about his partner's life. His knowledge was woefully lacking.  
  
*Oh be honest! You want to know just who this O'Neill guy is and exactly what he was to Blair.*  
  
"About what?" the anthropologist asked, slightly confused.  
  
Frustrated, Ellison snapped. "Don't play games with me Sandburg. About how you knew where  
to find me, how you know Mark and this Jack O'Neill. When you learned to fly a plane when you  
hate heights. I think I deserve to know."  
  
Those blue eyes turned arctic in an instant, the face hard, the voice rough and low. "You do  
huh?" A laugh that wasn't a laugh, a harsh sound that sounded more like a sob escaped Sandburg's  
lips as he got to his feet. "This from the man who conveniently forgot to mention he had a brother  
and a father alive and living in Cascade? This from the man who never tells me when he zones or  
need--" Blair broke off, amending his words quickly. "could possibly want my help until the last  
possible second and then blames me for not coming up with answers quick enough? The man  
who calls a shrink from a airport phone booth for me, but forgets to mention it to me after I've  
told him a dozen times I don't LIKE spilling my guts to psychologists? That's rich man. You  
deserve to know. Ha!"  
  
The slamming of the patio door shook the house. Jim followed his partner with his hearing, but   
Sandburg wasn't mumbling under his breath. There was an eerie silence that surrounded him as  
he disappeared into the sand.  
  
Ellison cursed himself silently. He had a bad habit of trying to use interrogation tactics on Blair if  
he didn't get the immediate answers he wanted. Looking back now, those overbearing aggressive  
moves made Ellison wince. *I mean what sort of a friend am I? I don't treat Simon that way. I   
didn't treat Jack Pendergrast that way either. I never treated Army buddies like that or   
co-workers. When did it become routine to treat Sandburg like that?*  
  
("Listen, you neo-hippie witch doctor punk, I could slap you right now with larceny and false  
impersonation and you are heading real quick into harassing a police officer, and what's more your  
behavior is giving me probable cause to shake this place down from top to bottom for narcotics!")  
  
("Why didn't you tell me this?")  
  
("What the hell did you do? What the hell did you do?")  
  
("Would you just forget it? I am not going to be some human lab rat for you to prod and probe  
every time something goes wrong. You got that?"  
  
"I'm just trying to help. ")  
  
("We never got off of it. We just took a brief detour to the Sandburg zone.")  
  
("Well, Chief, I don't know what you want me to say. I don't know if I can get past this. To me, it  
was a real breach of trust and that struck really deep with me.")  
  
("I got to have a partner I can trust. Have you ever stopped to think what good all this research is  
doing anyway?")  
  
*Deserve to know? God, how badly can I screw up? I don't deserve a damn thing.*  
  
***  
  
*Deserve to know? Deserve to know?!* Blair fumed as he strode angrily along the dunes.  
  
*Fuck you, James Ellison! Deserve to know! You bastard!*  
  
He sat down heavily and panted for a good minute, trying to do what Naomi said and just "let it  
go, let it go."  
  
But that was just plain stupid! Let it go? Like hell he would! He would stay angry until he damn  
well felt like it. He'd kept his cool remarkably well when he'd been accused in the bullpen, his  
apology thrown back in his face; no sense getting defensive on Ellison's turf he figured. He'd kept  
it together in the hospital room when Jim had finally come in to see him and made those lousy  
jokes when all he wanted to do was hit the man, scream and yell at him, curl up under the bed and  
sob like a baby. And then Jim had admitted that he too had seen the wolf and the jaguar, that  
perfect moment at death. It was the most peaceful and beautiful experience Blair had ever had.  
*Much better than the tunnel of light stuff.* And then . . . and then . . .  
  
("Chief, I don't know if I'm ready to take that trip with you.")  
  
*Don't know? You don't know if you're ready? What about me? Like I have a fucking choice  
about this?*  
  
He wanted to kill Jim right there. Sit up and take the oxygen tube and wrap it around his friend's  
neck. The urge to do it so strong, and he knew from experience if he gave into it that's just what  
would happen. For one horrible instant he had felt such hatred for him, he nearly had a heart  
attack. Anger, rage, feelings he hadn't had since the Army welled up inside him from a place he  
had all but destroyed, controlled. How could how could he not be ready? How could he not at  
least try and help? Why did Jim always have to leave him, leave the burden all upon his shoulders  
and then blame him when he faltered under the load? Didn't he deserve some help? Weren't they  
partners, even if Jim never admitted it in public except that first time as a joke to Joel? Didn't he  
validate some concern? And not James Ellison's patented Are-You-Okay?-Pull-Yourself-  
Together-Chief speech, that was about as helpful as a pair of swimming trunks in a snow storm.   
  
*God, would it be too much to ask for just something?* he wondered, staring up at the cloudless  
sky. *I'm gonna leave that something entirely up to you, I'm not even going to specify, because  
I'm breathing and that's gift enough. But there's--* Blair swallowed back the growing lump hin  
his throat. *but there's no point in coming back for Jim when Jim doesn't want me as partner,  
friend, roommate, Guide. Coming back for me is one thing. But if I did it for Jim, which I have  
a sneaking suspicion I did just that, which upon recent reflection was a fucking stupid thing to do  
since he could care less, what the hell should I do now?! I'm not dedicating my life to that  
asshole! No way in hell!*  
  
If dying didn't change things between them, Blair wasn't sticking around. Not for the roller  
coaster ride, not for the academic merry-go-round, not for the Sentinel stuff, the tiny cramped  
bedroom under the stairs, house rules, endless paperwork and stakeouts he did on his free time,  
and a partner who didn't want to be a partner, a Sentinel who didn't want to be a Sentinel, a man  
who despised him and treated him like shit.  
  
Blair Jacob Sandburg was many things, but he was nobody's whipping boy. Naomi could go on  
and on about peace and pacificism, but then she didn't know her baby boy had joined the U.S.  
Army to pay for his masters while she was off globetrotting and communing with trees or saving  
frogs or whatever the hell she'd been doing.   
  
He had tried to be accommodating and compromising with Jim these last few years. He'd tried to  
be understanding of Jim's upbringing, his struggles, his old pains and traumas, his difficulties and  
fears accepting his senses. He'd been grateful for his friend, (whether Jim considered him that or  
not). The police work actually took the edge off the boiling anger and fear that sometimes  
bubbled up, the adrenaline kick helping him to sleep without dreams at night and avoid panic  
attacks that still came. As long as he refrained from picking up a gun and repeating the horrible  
bloody events that had followed the first and last time he'd picked up a weapon with the intent to  
actually fire it, police work was wonderful. It was like practicing anthropology on current events.   
It gave him something to focus his mind on so he didn't end up running in mental circles when his  
classes inevitably failed to challenge him. He had stuck around at the loft because it seemed easier  
than moving, and Jim didn't complain, at least not seriously about him. At least that was what  
he'd thought, before Alex.  
  
Alex.  
  
Blair rubbed the back of his head ruefully. As pistol whippings went, it was minor. He'd had  
worse during his service time. Blair pushed up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and yanked off the   
woven bands he wore around his wrists. They had been a gift from one of the tribes he'd visited  
after he was discharged. He fingered the nearly invisible white scars that circled his wrists and  
thought back to the red marks around Jim's.  
  
He'd known once he had met Brackett that he couldn't, *couldn't* publish his work on Sentinels  
with Jim as his subject, couldn't risk any of what happened to him under different circumstances to  
happen to Ellison.  
  
Alex had been a God-sent.  
  
Alex who had no long terms of staying in Cascade, who hadn't minded at all that the results of the  
tests would be written up. Now he knew that was because Alex Barns wasn't her name and she  
had no plans for keeping him alive.  
  
So much for his life's work.  
  
The search for his Holy Grail had kept him sane, kept him from self-destructing after Iraq.   
Resisting the temptation to drink or drug himself into oblivion, he had buried himself alive in  
books, his grave a library. He haunted the archives at night, he took up meditation, ate healthy,  
avoided his mother in case Naomi's self-centered, slightly flaky haze might lift and the ill-used  
maternal instinct would rear up, pounce, and ask uncomfortable questions he had no intention of  
ever answering. Blair moved back to the one place in America least like a desert and attempted to  
put down roots.  
  
*I guess people like me don't deserve a home,* he thought ruefully, remembering boxes, boxes  
filled only with his belongings piled in the living room of the loft. *Or family and friends who can  
stand to be with me,* he thought back to Simon's visit after he'd risen from the dead. The captain  
had come asking for his observer pass and then left just as abruptly, disappearing with Jim to  
Mexico. If it hadn't been for Megan . . .  
  
But what did he do to help in Mexico? Absolutely nothing. He had no answers for Jim, and Jim  
could see only Alex.  
  
("Wait! Jim, don't shoot, man. It's only us.")  
  
("I couldn't use the gun. I couldn't even point it at her, as if...as if something held me back.)  
  
It was enough to make one question the reason they were still breathing.  
  
*Well there is all that lovely water out there. Wouldn't hurt much to finish what was started,* he  
thought idly, running the sand through his fingers.  
  
Blair shook himself. Enough of the pity party. He was planning on either remaining calm or  
staying angry. No way in hell was he giving into Jim and his own demons by letting depression  
take hold.  
  
He'd fight this. He'd fight Jim if he had to.  
  
He wouldn't go back to before, before the fountain, before he'd taken his life back after Iraq.  
  
He refused to be a victim, Blessed Protector be damned.  
  
***  
  
Blair was out for the rest of the day wandering the surf, sitting on the sand. Silent. Jim felt like  
an intruder, unwanted, out of place. The house was comfortable, filled with books on a variety of   
subjects, but none held his interest. He stood staring, chained to the patio, unable to venture forth  
after his friend. Despite was Simon had said, Jim was beginning to see that he had no right to  
Sandburg, had no hold on or over him. Blair had his own life, his own history, and now his own  
future away from Cascade, away from Major Crimes, away from the loft, away from James  
Ellison.  
  
Because that was what he'd said he'd wanted.  
  
He ate dinner and tried to watch some television, but he couldn't focus on the characters in the  
dumb sitcom because his hearing was tuned so intently to his partner. He thought about waiting  
up, but then decided it would be better if he went to his own room.  
  
He turned off the lights, and half an hour later the door opened and he heard Blair rummaging  
around for a bottle of water. There was the rattling sound of pills in a bottle and then the  
student's soft footfalls to the bathroom and then his room. And suddenly the house was silent . . .  
  
Until two hours later when it was broken by hoarse choking cries from Sandburg's room.  
  
If it was the loft, he'd listen in, and if Blair didn't calm down on his own, he'd go and shake the  
younger man awake, make sure he was really out of the dream and then head back up to his own  
bed. Blair had been taking care of himself for a long time, he didn't need a bedtime story. But  
now, guilt over how he treated his friend, and Alex weighing him down, Jim scrambled out of bed  
to his partner's temporary room and gently shook him awake.  
  
"Sandburg, Chief!" he hissed. "Wake up, Blair."  
  
"Wha-?"  
  
Blair sat up, eyes wide, pulse all over the map, holding his side as if he had a cramp. "You awake  
Sandburg?"  
  
"Yeah," he said, gulping in great gasps of air. "I'm 'wake. Go back to sleep Jim."  
  
Instead Ellison settled himself more comfortably on the edge of the bed and stared intently at his  
Guide. Now was the time to apologize, to tell Sandburg what a jerk he'd been, to say the words  
he should have said after the fountain.  
  
"What?" Blair asked when it became obvious that Jim wasn't leaving. "Something up with your  
senses?"  
  
"I thought you might want someone to talk to," Jim began awkwardly. He'd never done this   
before, not even when Carolyn had a nightmare. When you had bad dreams you bit your lip,  
stopped whimpering and acted like a man, as his father would say. Jim had taken the advice to  
heart. Perhaps was now the time to change that. "You never talk to any therapist," he continued,  
plunging in headfirst into the wide and weird world of attempting to comfort his distraught  
partner. "For someone so in touch with his feelings you've avoided psychologists like they were  
plague carriers. Lash, Galileo, Quinn, Kincaid . . . you never talk about anything important to  
you! I thought maybe you would like to."  
  
There! That wasn't so hard. He'd offered and he'd explained his reasons. His Guide should be  
feeling much better now.  
  
Blair looked at him like he'd suddenly sprouted another eyeball in the center of his forehead.   
"Nothing happened Jim. It was just a nightmare. There's nothing wrong. Get over it already,  
okay?" He yanked on the blankets and tried to tuck himself back in.  
  
"Nothing wrong?" Jim protested. He had finally accepted that he needed to talk with his Guide,  
go over, process what had happened, and Blair wanted to *sleep?* How could Blair say that  
when he looked the way he did? "You cut your hair. You impaled the phone with the scissors.   
You're staying in a beach house but refuse to do anything but stare at the water. You knew I was  
kidnaped before Simon told you, broke into a military base, and was prepared to go in guns  
blazing if you couldn't get me out." He leaned in closer to his partner so that Blair could see his  
expression and know he wasn't angry but worried, and continued. "This isn't you, Blair. I think  
maybe the mental stress of the past few weeks is affecting you more than you realize."  
  
Blair sputtered for a moment and then with an audible sound, snapped his jaw shut. "Well that  
just goes to show how well you know me James Ellison. Now lemme sleep."  
  
"Was it about Alex?" Jim asked softly, wanting to face this now. He was sick of waiting, letting  
the guilt eat at him.  
  
Sandburg sat up, face incredulous. "What?"  
  
"Was the nightmare about Alex? Simple yes or no answer, you can handle that."  
  
"Get out," Blair snapped.  
  
Jim shook his head. Finally a response. All this silence, this emotionless Sandburg had irritated  
him, scared him. Now Blair was beginning to talk. *I mean, wasn't it Sandburg who always  
insisted that it was better never to go to sleep angry?* They needed to talk about this. Sandburg  
was right. They couldn't just ignore this and sweep it under the rug. Besides, his Guide's physical  
condition wasn't improving and the Sentinel was demanding action. "I don't think so."  
  
"Get out!" he hissed.  
  
"No."  
  
"What, you can tell me to get out of your life, your home, your workplace but I can't tell you to  
get out of my room in the middle of the night in a house where you are a guest?!" Blair spat,  
shoving Jim off the bed. "Gotta love the double standard there *buddy.*"  
  
Jim stood up, face pale, hands clenched in fists. That had hurt, not the shove, that wasn't bad at  
all, but the words . . .  
  
("I just need a little space. I feel like the walls are closing in.")  
  
("I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to analyze it. I just need you out of here by the time I  
get back. ")  
  
And what had he offered Blair when the kid had woken up? Jokes. Lame jokes.  
  
He swallowed hard, clenching his jaw tight, fighting the burning in his eyes, the sudden  
immeasurable weight on his chest. It was one thing to carry it around, it was another for his  
Guide, his best friend, to call him on it.  
  
*But isn't this what you wanted? To face this head-on, not dance around the subject? Didn't  
you want a response from Blair?*  
  
*I don't want Blair to hate me!*  
  
*Blair doesn't usual act like this when I make a mistake! He always forgives me, he always  
sticks around.* Jim had originally thought he wouldn't, had been surprised when he did. Now the  
kid seemed ready to abandon him.  
  
*HA! Abandon you? You idiot! You fucking moron! You abandoned HIM, remember?! You've  
become everyone in your life you hated and was hurt by! Jerk!*  
  
"Sandburg- Blair I didn't mean--" he began in a choked voice remembering, remembering the  
damming words, his Guide standing in the middle of the loft, the middle of his home, finding his  
belongings packed as Jim literally walked out on him.  
  
But Blair was on a roll. "You want space? Can't have anyone around? Some time off alone? I  
owe you rent, right? You say that and the subjects closed, right?" he yelled. "Well maybe for you!   
Maybe that's all the time it takes you to come to terms with what you did, what happened, but us  
damaged, mentally stressed folk need a little longer to put it all in neatly labeled boxes far, faaar  
away in our subconscious. That type of work requires sleep Ellison, so get the fuck out of my  
room."  
  
With that Blair dove back under the covers and turned his back on his friend.  
  
***  
  
Breakfast began in the silence of the morning. Blair was making pancakes again. Jim said he was  
sorry. Blair's heart rate didn't so much as twitch. Jim repeated himself. Nothing.  
  
Losing his patience, Ellison snarled "Dammit Sandburg, would you answer me or at least look at  
me when I'm trying to apologize?"  
  
"Apologize? For what?" Sandburg asked, looking up from the batter.  
  
"For WHAT?" Jim roared. "I threw you out, ignored you, stuck my gun in your face, told you to  
leave, that I didn't need you, that I didn't trust you--"   
  
"You don't," Blair said cooly.  
  
"I DO!" Jim yelled in return.  
  
Blair laughed, a humorless sound. *God help me,* Ellison growled *If he doesn't start laughing  
and acting the way he usually does I'm going to hurt someone.*   
  
"So the first words out of your mouth when I said I turned in my diss was NOT a howl of  
betrayal?" Sandburg pointed out as he grabbed the frying pan out of the cupboard. "I remember  
something along the lines of WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO OUR DEAL?"  
  
Jim looked away, embarrassed. "I was . . . surprised," he said at last.  
  
Blair snorted. "You were afraid. You don't trust me to lick a stamp." He turned to look at the  
Sentinel whose jaw was even now clenching in anger. "What? Can't admit it?" he taunted.  
"C'mon Jim. You can say it. It's just three little words."  
  
"Fuck you Sandburg, why does this always have to turn into some new age group therapy, love  
everyone kind of conversation?"  
  
Brandishing the pan, eyes narrowing, Blair glared at the detective. "Do I look like I want to hug  
you Jim?"  
  
The Sentinel eyed his partner carefully. "You look like you want to slug me," he admitted.  
  
"And if you're not careful that is exactly what I'm going to do. Now sit down and eat your  
pancakes."  
  
Jim took his seat as Blair went to work at the stove. "Today I get pancakes? You want to slug  
me and I get pancakes?"  
  
"I get kidnaped you make pancakes. You get kidnaped, I make pancakes." The batter hissed in  
the pan. "Notice the uniformity of standards between us with this equation," Blair pointed out in  
a dark tone.  
  
Jim grimaced and took a sip of his coffee. "I miss the subtle Sandburg, the one that talked in  
circles."  
  
"The one you would tune out at will," Blair countered.  
  
"The one that let me eat in peace," Jim retorted.  
  
Blair slammed the spatula down on the counter. "Well I'm sorry Jim, but he drowned and didn't  
bother to come back. He found it way too tiring trying to pound sense into your head and  
decided death was preferable."  
  
Before Blair could say another word he found himself slammed up against the pantry cupboard  
door, a furious Jim Ellison in his face. "Don't . . .Joke . . . About . . . That!" he hissed.  
  
"Jim--"  
  
"EVER!" roared the Sentinel.  
  
Blair looked away, trying, trying to keep those crazy, stupid, pointless tears from his eyes.   
"So . . ." he spat. "We're back at the beginning again, huh, Ellison? Think you can try and be  
slightly more considerate this time around?"  
  
Jim dropped his partner and moved back a few steps. "What do you want from me Sandburg,  
huh? An apology?! Fine! I apologize!"  
  
Blair braced himself against the door, trying to keep from falling over. He felt as if he'd just run a  
marathon. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe you since you, the spirit realm, and the universe at  
large have made it abundantly clear that this is in fact *my* fault." His voice turned pensive.  
"You know it wasn't so bad as life threatening situations go. I've been in worse. No apology  
man. There's no point. You don't mean it, you can't change. If dying doesn't impact you there's  
little else I can do except Stay Dead," he snapped.  
  
"DON'T SAY THAT! Dammit Sandburg," Jim snarled. "I screwed up everything. I'm  
apologizing for every stupid thoughtless word I said. I'm apologizing for getting you killed, for  
nearly getting you killed in Mexico, running off with Alex, for ignoring my dreams, for throwing  
you out. I'm fucking SORRY, okay?! I DO mean it!" He ran a hand over his face in helpless  
frustration. He couldn't convince Blair, not anymore, not after what he'd done. Blair wouldn't  
forgive, he'd never forget, never trust again. And that hurt almost as much as Blair leaving, Blair  
dying. He'd almost begun to believe he had carte blanche with Blair. *You shit, Ellison! You  
think that give you the right to treat him as you do?* The voice in his head whispered angrily.   
His conscious was no Jiminey Cricket, that was for sure. "Those things I said, I-I don't know  
where they came from."  
  
"They came from you," Blair explained calmly. "It's how you feel." He turned and looked out at  
the ocean, avoiding Jim's searching eyes. "Y'know, waiting for you in that office before . . .Alex  
came . . ." He changed tracts abruptly, voice going somewhat cheerful. "Well, lets just say this is  
actually better than I hoped for. I saw your side of things, saw what damage I could cause, my  
work has already caused. I mean, our partnership could have ended in that fountain; now at least  
I get to say good-bye, help you out of that military base, make sure all my junk is out of your  
house, your life is back in order, work is good, and surprise, surprise!" Blair spread his arms as if  
to announce his presence to the world. "I'm still around if you decide to suddenly need me for  
anything."  
  
Jim couldn't have been more stunned if someone had poleaxed him. "You're-you're leaving?" he  
whispered, horrified, terrified.   
  
*No! Nonononono!*  
  
"No," Blair said with a frustrated sigh. "I came back for you. Are you listening? Pay attention  
here James," he said sharply. "I'm not going anywhere. You'll know where I live, you'll know my  
number. I'll even try and stay in Cascade if it is humanly possible, but I doubt it. You'll call when  
you need me: 1-800-4GUIDES and I'm there. No tests, no loud music, all the hot water, and  
space you want, man. Hell, if you feel I'm not trustworthy without some contract we can hire  
some lawyer, or I should say *I* can hire some lawyer and work that out too, since you don't  
really *need* me," he said with bitter sarcasm.  
  
Jim shook his head, regaining his sanity. This was marginally better than Blair leaving but   
still . . ."This is absolute bullshit."  
  
Blair shrugged. "It's what you want."  
  
"Like hell!"   
  
Blair walked over to his friend and poked him in the chest. "When the shit hits the fan this is  
you,-- Detective James Ellison, Sentinel --this is how you act. Fear-based responses. Not that  
that's bad, but when have you ever believed me," he turned away throwing his hands up in the air,  
in a nonverbal plea for divine intervention. He turned and faced Jim again. "I told you when we  
met I would help you. I keep my word. Until the day I die, either tomorrow or 50 years from  
now, you have only to call. I promised you that. I'm not adding to your abandonment issues.  
*I'm* not leaving *you.* *You* left *me.*" He ran his hand through his shorn hair. "This is the  
best solution I can come up with. If you have some better idea, I'm willing to hear you out."  
  
Without a moment's hesitation James replied. "Stay."  
  
"Jim, I just *told* you I'm not--"  
  
"Stay with me, at the loft," he clarified, trying not to sound desperate, but he was, *he was!*   
Desperate to keep Blair in his life, Blair the Guide, Blair the researcher, Blair the roommate, Blair  
his *best friend,* who understood weird Sentinel shit as Simon called it, in ways no one, not his  
ex-wife, his Army buddies, his coworkers, his captain, his family ever could.  
  
"How is that going to prevent future disasters?" Sandburg asked archly. "Every time we go at  
one another your city suffers remember? I refuse to cause something like that again. That nerve  
gas could have killed thousands. We were acting like idiots and Alex nearly got away with mass  
murder! That and personally I refuse to put up with your treatment of me for another second. I've  
had it up to here," Blair raised his hand to a level above his head. "I've taken everything I could.   
If I wanted hell I would have stayed dead."  
  
"Dammit Sandburg! STOP SAYING THAT!" Jim had to fight the urge to slam his Guide up  
against a hard surface, the urge to shake his Guide silly. "I'm sick of hearing you try to blame  
yourself when it was me," Jim insisted.  
  
Blair held his hand to his head, pretending to recall something difficult and far distant in his   
memory. "I seem to recall another conversation not too long ago when exactly the opposite was  
said, when taking the blame wasn't enough. Which one should I believe Jim? Huh?" he demanded  
bitterly. "Whose word should I take, Jim's or Jim's? Hmm, tricky choice there. I think I'll go with  
the one that was said in honesty, not one that stems out of a misguided sense of guilt and  
obligation since I got you out of the base my work got you into in the first place," he spat.  
  
"You don't know that."  
  
"Actually I do. My master's thesis along with Brackett led to your kidnaping. Hence the blame  
falls on me. But don't worry Jim," Blair said with a laugh, turning off the stove before the smell  
of burnt pancake could fill the house. "I'll take it like a man."   
  
Jim ran over Blair's proposal in his mind. Blair had said he'd do anything to get past this, and this  
was what he'd come up with, a solution he thought would serve both of them. *No way Chief.   
No fucking way.*  
  
"Jim? Anything to add? You're very good at this," Sandburg said as he scraped the burnt mess  
into the garbage disposal.  
  
"At what?"  
  
"Honest scathing comments about Blair Sandburg. Feel free to jump in," he said in a mock  
cheerful voice as he ran the water and flipped the switch, filling the kitchen with the grinding   
noise for several awful moments.  
  
Jim shook his head and crossed his arms on his chest. "I am not joining you in this insanity. This  
is stupid. You usually aren't this stupid. I think its the meds." Jim cocked his head and stared  
intently at his Guide. "Maybe a fever."  
  
"Jim--" Blair protested as the larger man grabbed his elbow and steered him over to his room.   
*Shit!* the Sentinel cursed. The heat was radiating from his Guide's body and Blair was making  
pancakes.  
  
"You're lying down until you start making sense," he told the student, a no-nonsense, ordering  
tone taking over. He'd held back taking care of Sandburg when the kid was too stupid to do it  
himself and look what happened! Just look! He was thinking up crazy theories again. The  
Sentinel shook his head at the thought of foolish Guides.  
  
"You mean until I agree with you," Sandburg countered hotly.  
  
Ellison snorted as he pushed open the bedroom door. "When have we ever agreed?"  
  
"We agreed that Megan's coat deserved to be taken out and shot to be put out of its freakish  
misery."  
  
"I mean important stuff Chief," Jim reminded him with a glare as he sat Blair on the edge of the  
bed.  
.  
"That *was* important," Blair muttered under his breath. A firm hand pressed against his chest,  
aggravating the cracked ribs for a moment before the hypersensitive touch softened and moved to  
his shoulder instead.  
  
"Lie down," Jim ordered.  
  
"Jim-!"  
  
"Lie down Guide," the Sentinel snarled.  
  
"Fuck that!" Sandburg yelled, pushing back, suddenly alive with anger. "Now you remember I'm  
your Guide?" He punctuated his question with another shove. "Now your willing to think about  
it? Admit that I'm that important? That I'm relevant?" he cried, voice dripping with rancor and  
bitterness. "When you want me to do something you want?" He stood, his whole body shaking in  
fury. "And if I don't do what you want, what Jim? You'll pull out your handy dandy crossbow  
and kill me?!"   
  
Jim staggered backward, stunned. He felt as if he'd been just clocked by a two by four. Blair  
knew. Oh dear God, Blair *knew!*  
  
*Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*  
  
"You think I don't know?!" Blair roared, moving forward, causing Ellison to stumble back under  
the force of his anger. "You think I don't see the jaguar wandering through the loft? I'm you  
Shaman!" he screamed his defiance at the world, reaching quickly under his shirt and pulling his  
hand away blood stained, dripping. James gapped, mind unable to comprehend, the smell of  
blood assailing his senses.  
  
*Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*  
  
"We walk more than one world!" Blair reached up lighting quick and smeared the horrible blood  
on the side of Ellison's face and chin. Jim was inexplicably reminded of the face paint he'd worn in  
the jungle, how Incacha would paint him every morning until he felt more naked without paint  
than without clothes. But the blood burned, was still warm and smelling of Blair, Blair who  
*knew!*   
  
*Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*  
  
"You may not be ready to head into the water but I was thrown kicking and screaming into it,  
literally and figuratively without any help, without *anyone!*" Blair sobbed, but no tears left  
those blue eyes. "Where the hell were you? Where the hell was ANYONE?! I don't have a  
fucking clue what being a Shaman means, but I'm it. A blood gift," he said with another horrible  
parody of a laugh staring down at his stained hands. "My job to protect you and I'm doing my  
damned best here, even though you've made it very clear that you don't want me, don't need me  
anything but gone from your life and your work! You probably would have been much happier if  
I'd stayed dead since you needed me gone so badly!"  
  
"No-" Jim choked out. He couldn't breathe, couldn't even stand. *Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*   
"No, that's not tru--"   
  
"Liar!" Blair raised his clenched fists to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm so fucking  
close to losing it here, you have no idea how close. After the fountain, in Sierra Verde, when you  
yelled at me about the diss, in the hospital room when you stayed for what? Five minutes? I  
wanted to kill you!" he hissed. "I almost killed someone at the base the wolf was so strong."   
  
The eyes snapped open, wild and feral. "If you ever treat me like that again I *will* kill you  
James Ellison, do you understand me? I'll KILL you!"  
  
"Yes. Yes!" Jim agreed nodding his head frantically as he took another step backward and hit the  
doorway and crumpled to the floor, stunned, marked, overwhelmed.   
  
Blair *knew!*  
  
Blair looked down at him, eyes filled with misery. "You had no right," he whispered hoarsely.  
  
"I know, I'm sorry" he whispered back.  
  
*Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*  
  
"I'd do anything for you, did *everything* for you," Blair said, voice breaking, eyes bewildered  
asking *why? why?*  
  
*Just like the wolf*  
  
"You kept me sane," Jim admitted desperately. *Too late, too late,* a voice whispered inside.  
*Blair knows.* "You kept me alive." *But I didn't keep you sane, you alive.*  
  
Blair closed his eyes and shook his head, and he looked to Jim like he did in the garage, in the  
garage with his gun in his hand. He had been standing atop of the car protecting the world and  
James Ellison from Golden Fire people, wanting to trust, but so afraid. "Why?" he asked, he  
sobbed as he too collapsed into a gasping heap by the bed.  
  
"I was a-afraid," Jim confessed, Jim who hadn't been to confession in years because Sandburg  
was his Confessor, his Sacred Confidant. Sandburg who had all the answers or who would  
devote his precious time to finding them just for James Ellison.  
  
Those eyes snapped open, older, younger than they should be, both at the same time. "Don't be  
afraid of me Enqueri," he said softly. "Don't you ever be afraid of me."  
  
And it was Incacha's voice, and Incacha's words from so long ago and they were coming from  
Blair.  
  
And then Blair was up and moving, Blair who should be in bed because he had a fever, because  
he'd drowned, because he was *bleeding dammit!* But Blair was headed outside, to the ocean,  
to spend another day surrounded by impenetrable silence. "Blair- wait!" Jim scrambled to his  
feet. "I can't do this without you," he called after him. "I was wrong!"  
  
Blair's escaping figure froze. He turned around slowly, frank shock on his face. "Huh," he  
breathed. "Well whattya know?" he whispered staring at the ground before looking up and  
meeting Jim's eyes. "Hell just froze over."  
  
***  
  
Jim wanted to go after Sandburg. He was ill, his Guide needed to rest. But once again he found  
himself seemingly chained to the house, unable to step off the porch.  
  
Unable to stop what sounded almost like an animal whine from escaping his lips, he turned and  
marched to the bathroom, throwing on the light and wrenching open the faucet.  
  
He stared at the bloodstain that now decorated his face, impossibly marked it. He reached up with  
one hand and touched the blood that burned his skin like nothing he'd ever felt.  
  
("Sandburg! Sandburg! Come on. Come on, guys. Come on. Sandburg! Let's get an ambulance  
here!"   
  
"I don't hear a heartbeat. Do you? Do you hear a heartbeat? Jim! Jim!"  
  
"No, nothing.")  
  
He pushed the fountain out of his mind. He remembered instead the hunt through the jungle,  
bathed in an eerie blue glow of dreams, of visions, the crossbow in his hands.  
  
("Come on. Get his airway open. All right, here we go. All right, let's go. One, two, three...  
four... "  
  
"Come on, Chief."  
  
"Four, five... All right, clear. Let's go again. One, two three, four."  
  
"Breathe, damn it!")  
  
And then, near the stone temple he saw the animal, the wolf, wandering through the underbrush,  
guarding the perimeter.  
  
("Four. "  
  
"Give us room, guys. Check his pulse."  
  
"This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. Come on, Sandburg.  
Come on. Come on, Chief. Come on. Come on, come on.")  
  
And without thinking about it, without thinking about his actions, his words, his attitude, he  
raised the weapon, aimed and fired.  
  
The wolf whimpered as it fell.  
  
("I'm sorry, guys."  
  
"Oh, Sandy... ")  
  
He'd put away his crossbow feeling the grim satisfaction of taking out his enemy, his prey. He  
walked over to check on the wolf to make sure it was dead.  
  
("What do you mean, "sorry"? Wait. This isn't over. Come on, Sandburg. Come on!"   
  
"Jim. "  
  
"Come on, come on. Come on, Sandburg. Come on, damn it!"  
  
"Jim, he's gone. Let him go. He's gone."  
  
"Come on, Sandburg.")  
  
He leaned over to look at the animal which blinked up at him from where it lay motionless on the  
ground. And then . . .and then it was Blair.  
  
("Jim!"  
  
"No! No! He's alive!   
  
"He's gone!"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Come on! Stop it!"  
  
"Let it go, baby."  
  
"Let it go, let it go."  
  
"No... oh, God, no.")  
  
And Blair was laying there, naked, dying, dead.  
  
Murdered.   
  
("Don't you go! No! He's alive!"   
  
"He's gone!"   
  
"Oh, God, no.")  
Jim looked away from the mirror and stuck his hands under the stream of water watching the sink  
fill with pink stained liquid, and then splashed a handful over his face.  
  
*Like Lady Macbeth,* he though painfully remembering the bloody play, *the spot won't come  
out.*  
  
("He's gone. Gone!")  
  
***  
  
Blair didn't come in until after the lights were off and Jim was in bed. Figuring that was what his  
partner would do, at the first sign of dusk the detective turned in, lying in bed, listening to his  
friend swallow some pills, eat an apple and then pad off to his own room.   
  
Jim laid awake a long time.  
  
An incredible sense of deja vu hit the detective the next morning when he woke and headed into  
the kitchen.  
  
Blair stood at the stove, batter in a bowl, frying pan on the burner. "Pancakes?" Jim asked, slightly  
surprised.  
  
"Pancakes, take three." Blair clarified with a grin aimed at the stove. The anthropologist was  
humming to himself slightly, hands shaking with fatigue. It was all Jim could do not to drag Blair  
back to bed and feed him broth and antibiotics until he was well.  
  
But he had no *right. Not now that Blair knew.*  
  
"Blair?" he asked tentatively.  
  
"Uh yeah?" the student answered just as cautiously.  
  
*Calm, logic. You won't get him to rest and heal if you never stop pushing each other's  
buttons.* "I thought a lot about what you said, about your solution to the problem Chief."  
  
"Aaaaand you agree?" Sandburg asked shooting him a covert glance as he poured irregular  
shaped chocolate chip pancakes.  
  
"No, I still think its bullshit," Jim said easily "but I think I figured out what is going on." Ellison  
leaned on the counter across from Sandburg, staring at his partner where his friend would not.  
  
"Enlighten me."  
  
"You think there is a problem that needs your stupid solution, I don't see one. That's why it's  
bullshit," Jim explained.  
  
Now Blair looked up. "You don't see any problem," he repeated, not an iota of emotion in his  
words.  
  
"Well, there is what I did," Jim clarified slightly uncomfortable with the piercing gaze now that he  
finally had it fixed where it belonged, on him. "Throwing you out and--and stuff. The things I  
said. That was my fau--" Blair opened his mouth to protest and Jim straightened up, voice harsh  
like his drill sergeant, the one had to have been a demon from hell. "Shut-up and listen Sandburg,  
It WAS my fault. You can't blame it on Sentinel instincts or whatever territorial theory you have  
currently. I was an asshole, a jerk, a hypocrite. You didn't know she was a criminal, and you did  
try to tell me after I stuck my gun in your face, not once but twice. I had no right to accuse you  
of betrayal." There, he'd said it, and just like always he felt lightened, clean, whole. There was a  
damn good reason why he went to Blair and not to a priest. In a softer voice he added, "I killed  
you."  
  
Sandburg scratched his head, squinting in puzzlement as his mind turned over what Jim just said.   
"Ummm . . . no, Alex killed me. I remember that very clearly, believe me, in full technicolor and  
sound no less. Double feature nightly. You just sort of weren't around to stop her, which was my  
fault since I should have told you about her." Now came the familiar Sandburg pacing and Jim  
wanted to cheer and jump up and down at the sight of it, the sight of Blair being Blair, but he had  
to focus now, focus on what his best friend was saying. "I mean what sort of Guide goes out and  
helps another Sentinel? That's why it's good that this happened. Now I figured it all out, see?   
You partner with Megan and you have a partner you can trust, who won't loose her grip on the  
big picture when some other opportunity comes around. Focused, properly trained, dependent,  
trustworthy."  
  
Jim shook his head. When did Sandburg get so mixed up about things? For a moment the wished  
he could peer into his friend's mind and see where the basis was for all of Sandburg's wild leaps  
into insanity, so that he could find the right words and fix this. He didn't have any proof but he  
had the feeling that the thing with Alex was just the tip of the iceberg, as if all the hateful venom  
he'd spat at his friend in those days were things Blair had been expecting, inevitably waiting to  
hear for the past three years.*Well not anymore. No more blood, Sandburg. No more blood.*   
"We're not going to agree on this are we?" he asked idly.  
  
"If you weren't so stubborn you'd see I'm right. I apologized in the bullpen, admitted I was  
wrong. Fat lot of good it did me," Sandburg muttered, flipping the first pancake expertly.  
  
"You're not wro--" Jim sighed and rubbed his forehead. "This is a waste of time."  
  
Sandburg nodded. "I'm glad you see that."  
  
"You think you're at fault, I think I'm at fault . . ."  
  
Blair licked some of the batter off the spoon. "I think your crazy."  
  
Jim narrowed his eyes. "Well you're a damn fool Sandburg."  
  
"Moron."  
  
"Loud-mouth."  
  
"Neat-freak," Blair challenged plunking down a dripping batter spoon an inch from Jim's hands set  
on the counter top.  
  
Very solemnly Jim took the spoon in hand and reached out and smeared batter on Sandburg's t-  
shirt.  
  
Equally serious Blair took the bowl in his hands, reached out and dumped the lot on Ellison's  
head.  
  
Or at least he tried to. With a yelp, Jim pulled back, batter dribbling cold and sticky down his  
collar. Growling, he grabbed a handful and threw it back at Blair.  
  
Dodging gracefully, the anthropologist, with spatula in hand, laughter evident, flipped the half  
cooked pancake at Jim's face.  
  
It all went downhill from there.  
  
Several sticky, furious minutes later, laughter still echoing in the disaster that was the kitchen  
Blair sat slumped against the refrigerator, Jim opposite him against the oven.  
  
Merriment gave way to coughing and then choking as Blair leaned to the side so far that his  
forehead touched the splattered linoleum  
  
Scrambling to his feet, cursing himself for ten times a fool, Jim leaned over his partner, hands  
fluttering helplessly as Sandburg fought for air. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," Jim whispered anxiously.  
  
Blair weakly waved one hand, trying to indicate that he was okay. "'S'okay--" Another deep  
hacking sound escaped. "'S'okay Jim."  
  
Jim shook his head in refusal. "No it isn't," he said hoarsely as Blair sat up again, hand pressed  
against his side. "You won't come home. You kept saying you were coming back to Cascade, but  
not home. And then you didn't want your observer pass anymore," Jim continued, voice  
becoming strident with fear. "Or-or to teach at Rainier, and then you didn't even want to write  
about me. You're not . . . *you* anymore."  
  
The student's eyes flew open. "That was to protect you so we could each get on with our lives!"  
Blair cried.  
  
"You always protect me! It's driving me nuts! You don't even think about yourself," Jim replied,  
running his hands through his hair, smearing batter everywhere. "You came for me," he insisted  
feverently.  
  
Blair hung his head. "It was my work that got you there."  
  
"It was your work that helped me become who I am, that gave me my life back."  
  
Sandburg met Jim's eyes for a moment before he looked hurriedly away, not willing to face what  
he saw lurking there, not willing to believe it could be real. "Got into trouble; you had to rescue  
me again," he said in a low voice, shamed by his own helplessness.  
  
Jim knew instinctively that it was the fountain on his Guide's mind. He closed his eyes, wondering  
if he'd ever be able to think about the incident and not feel as if someone had physically reached  
down his throat and ripped out his internal organs. "I was too late. You came back all on your  
own. And *you* rescued *me*," Jim tried to reassure him.  
  
Blair rubbed his eyes suddenly exhausted. "What do you want me to do, huh?" he demanded  
quietly. "I can't do this anymore James."  
  
"Come home," Jim pleaded without hesitation.  
  
Silently Blair got to his feet, Jim reaching out to steady him. The anthropologist looked around  
the gooey kitchen and offered his friend a smile. "So much for pancakes. C'mon Jim, help me  
find the mop. What?" he asked when Jim suddenly started laughing.  
  
Jim shook his head and just laughed.  
  
***  
  
It felt as if a connection between them had somehow been rebuilt, there for the taking, for  
traveling, for communicating. Not active but there. No longer compelled to remain on the porch  
Jim followed after his friend who sat once again engrossed by the changing tide of the afternoon.  
  
Jim stood beside his friend who sat barefoot, arms loose around his bent knees, this time sitting on  
a blanket he had taken with him. The weather was unusually warm even for Carlsbad which  
assuaged the Sentinel that his Guide couldn't catch a chill-- that and Blair's regular ingestion of his  
meds. The Sentinel contemplated the ocean, allowing his senses to fly forth and see and smell and  
hear and feel, confident that with his Guide near no harm would come to him. Pulling back after a  
few minutes, Jim began to speak again. He was becoming slightly more at ease at starting  
conversations, not the arguments and accusations that were so much of the staple of his initiation  
at the loft. It was a weird feeling; he found himself remembering tactics Sandburg had used to  
make points and get Jim to talk and now turned them on their head to use for his partner. *If  
Simon were here, I'd bet he'd say I sound just like Blair.*  
  
But a real Sentinel knew that only Blair sounded like Blair.  
  
"When you pass your defense . . ." Jim opened, disturbing the silence between them. "What are  
you going to do then?"  
  
Sandburg shrugged. "Dunno. I could teach somewhere, but I doubt Chancellor Edwards is going  
to give me a glowing reference," he said with a bitter smile. "I could go on expeditions or just  
work on research and publishing. The sub-culture thing was actually a very interesting topic," he  
admitted sounding rather surprised. Jim wasn't. He'd overheard people talking at the university  
when he'd gone over to Sandburg's office. Blair was one of the most prolific and well read and  
well-liked writers. His style was said to be friendly, open and understandable. Jim kept reminding  
himself that he should sit down and read some of Blair's work but never found the time. The one  
time he had he'd only skimmed the chapter he stolen, too angry by the content to care for the  
intelligence and brilliance of the writing. "I've already had some people talk to me about  
continuing it," Sandburg continued. "I was thinking about getting some funding to do a follow up  
on military subcultures."  
  
Now there was a path that Ellison hadn't suspected. "Wouldn't- uh . . . wouldn't that be kind of  
unobjective since you've been in the military Chief?" he asked uneasily.  
  
He really didn't want Sandburg involved with the military again, especially after the recent rescue  
mission.  
  
("Lieutenant? Good job.")  
  
It was about safety, Jim told himself firmly. It had nothing to do with a certain colonel who  
complimented his partner so easily, who spoke with such familiarity and caring, who Blair  
responded to in kind. Absolutely nothing.  
  
Blair snorted. "Like it wasn't objective writing about you and being your Guide and Shaman, not  
to mention living with you? Sacrificing career goals to become friends?" A weak chuckle  
escaped onto the warm breeze. "I threw objectivity and anthropology right out the window from  
the get go, planing to go native and stay native, and didn't care because I was so . . . happy," he  
murmured in a wistful tone, like an adult remembering a favorite Christmas as a child, long ago  
lost. Blair looked up at Jim suddenly, mood changing like quicksilver once again. "Would you  
believe I actually considered going to the Academy this summer?" He laughed, not noticing Jim's  
stunned expression. "What a hoot! It's okay to go native in anthropology as long as you can in the  
end, pull back, be objective, return to your place in life to write it all up. I was your partner from  
the second time we met," Here Blair's smile faded and he turned back to the ocean abruptly, as if  
he'd just caught himself doing something he swore he'd never do again. "At least *I* thought so,"  
he whispered so soft even Jim had to strain to hear.  
  
"You were, *are.*" Jim insisted quickly.  
  
Blair offered Jim a tolerant smile, the kind that laughs at you and says "yeah, right!" really loud  
even if you aren't a Sentinel.  
  
"I believe that's known as a Freudian slip," Sandburg pointed out.  
  
"I thought you hated therapists," Jim countered.  
  
"I do. Well, sort of," he amended.  
  
"But you borrow Mark's house?" Jim asked, arching his eyebrow incredulously as he dropped  
down beside Blair. "You minor in psychology?"  
  
"The therapists I knew growing up that every school principle I ever had dragged me to see at one  
point in time, no matter where we moved, were all exactly the same. They told me what my  
problems were. They told me how wrong I was, how I should focus more on studies, how I  
should push to finish early, how I should focus on math and science, and then the next school  
English and history. They told me to push harder to succeed, be competitive. They told me to go  
back to my age appropriate group so that I could mature socially. They told me how wrong my  
upbringing was, how damaged I must be from Naomi's wanderings and a constant stream of  
strange men entering and leaving my life. If I wanted to base my life on what other people said  
and thought about me I would have walked up to whatever big dumb ox of a football player made  
it his point to make my life miserable and listened to him talk for a while. It's why I minored in  
psychology so I knew all their tricks," Blair finished smugly, nodding his head as if his plan was  
foolproof, protected him from those individuals who haunted his upbringing.   
  
It was perhaps the longest explanation of Sandburg's life Pre-Jim that Blair had ever uttered in the  
presence of his friend; the most honest, the most painfully telling thing the detective ever heard.  
  
"Big dumb ox?" he repeated. "Nice stereotype there Sandburg."  
  
"What? And you, Mr. Quarterback, you never went out of your way to pick on other people in  
school?" Blair asked pointedly.  
  
Slightly irritated at being lumped in the same group as the jocks that made Blair's life miserable,  
Jim snapped out "Actually I didn't."  
  
Sandburg blinked in surprise, face losing its own wary look for that of genuine pleasure. "That's  
good to know," he admitted softly. "Believe me, when I started working with you I had some  
serious doubts about whether this wasn't some horrible flashback from my high school years. The  
football player demanding my homework, slamming me up against the lockers. Though judging by  
recent events I guess not all of them were unfounded."  
  
"You never told me that," Jim replied, slightly shocked. *God, is that what Blair has been  
thinking this whole time about me?* "You never told me anything about that," he said, angry at  
being left in the dark for so long about his friend. Did Sandburg really think about that, compare  
him to those bastards he'd known as a child? *Is that how I've been treating him?* he thought,  
horrified. "It's like you have this whole other life at Rainier--"  
  
"Had," Blair corrected absently.  
  
"--and I don't know anyone or anything you do there. And then you were thinking all these things  
about me, you, us, and you never said anything. And then this Army stuff . . . its like you're  
another person."  
  
"You never asked," Blair responded simply. "I didn't think you cared."  
  
*Didn't think I cared? I care!* But his recent memory and behavior disproved that statement.   
Hurt, but not willing to show it Jim clenched his jaw tight letting anger bleed into his tone. "I  
thought this was about friendship."  
  
"I said that," Sandburg reminded him sharply. "You didn't say a word man. Do you have any idea  
how awkward it was saying that, admitting to you that it was beyond just research, the deal?"   
Blair asked suddenly angry himself. "You could have thrown it back in my face. Hell you *did!*   
"Lets keep it academic" remember? You wanted a human encyclopedia and research book that  
you could pull out when you needed it. A secretary. What was I supposed to think?" he  
demanded.  
  
Jim shifted uncomfortably as the words struck home. "I don't do feelings very well Sandburg," he  
growled.  
  
"Ahhh!" Blair said sarcastically as he stood and dusted off his pants and shook the blanket. "You  
have a problem with something and the world must adapt to fit you. How considerate."  
  
Jim sighed in exasperation. "I'm beginning to realize that about myself." He looked up at Blair,  
scowling. "You know Sandburg, you're an asshole."  
  
Blair snorted. "Better than being a doormat man. I look at it this way," he continued, pulling his  
friend to his feet before walking along the beach, his Sentinel at his side an eerie reminder of their  
walk along the beach in Mexico. "This diss is done, you have control, your job is going good, and  
I'm out of your hair and your home and still alive."  
  
"If things are that easy why did you come find me?" Jim queried snidely.  
  
"Because I'm your Guide," Blair answered promptly. "I'm Wolf as well. I refuse to see myself as a  
person in parts. I'm all those things at once;" he said waving his hands for emphasis. "Scientist,  
anthropologist, former observer, roommate, lieutenant, and teacher, Shaman, Guide, wolf, friend.   
I, *we*" he corrected pointedly, "walk two worlds. I'm not going to divide myself into little bits  
like you do. Regardless of how we do or don't get along, our relationship has certain guidelines.   
You didn't want me in your life anymore and still you came to check on me at Rainier to find out  
what Alex had done."  
  
Fury rising again, Jim pulled his partner around to face him. "So the only reason you came back  
for me is because I came and found you?"  
  
Blair shook his head in frustration. "You're thinking of this as one-upmanship and it gets twisted  
around. This is the way things *are,* no obligations, it just is. That's why the diss thing had to be  
cleared up. That's why it is good you told me how you felt about me, now we can be Sentinel and  
Guide without all the angst and the blowups where other people get hurt. See?"  
  
"This is your damn solution again."  
  
"Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it," Sandburg said with a chuckle.  
  
"I like my solution better," Jim said staunchly.  
  
"Unfortunately, your mind being replaced by serviceable aliens aside James, I don't think your  
personality is going to change," the anthropologist retorted tartly. "It sounds like a bad marriage.   
I try and change you, you try and change me, when what we should have done is just learned to  
work with who we are, but kept our distance."  
  
"And you being only a phone call away is just the way to do it," the detective stated mockingly,  
crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
"Yep," Blair said with a nod.  
  
"Well judging by the trial run we've had, my phone bill is going to be astronomical, you might just  
dye your hair blue the next time we talk, the loft will become a barren eyesore again, I'll never find  
the mop, and unless I somehow start listening to my dreams like you do, I'm never going to know  
when you're in trouble to come down and help, be your Sentinel. I see flaws, lots and lots of  
flaws," Jim announced smugly.  
  
"Okay, so it's not perfect," he allowed, hands on his hips. "But coming back to the loft isn't  
perfect either. I'm only ever going to be a guest, at most a tenant," before Jim could interrupt,  
Blair pushed forward. "I can't work at the station as an observer any more. If I want to do  
anything in my field associated with a university in Cascade I've got to go begging and crawling  
on my hands and knees before that bitch Edwards. That, and the next time you decide to show  
me how much you don't trust me, God only knows where I'll end up."  
  
  
The two men stared at each other, refusing to back down from their beliefs. They might have  
stayed there staring forever if Jim hadn't spoke.  
  
"What we need," Jim said deliberately "is a third solution."  
  
Blair thought about this for a long moment before nodding, much to the detective's relief. "Got  
any ideas?"  
  
"Give me a minute here, Chief."  
  
Blair bounced once on his toes. It was a weak, half-hearted bounce, not anything like his usual  
wattage but Jim took it as a sign. "Could you think while you make dinner?" Sandburg asked.  
  
"Sure."  
  
***  
  
Jim was pulling the ground beef out of the fridge when he stood up suddenly. "What if . . .?"  
  
Blair turned from where he stood cutting lettuce for the salad. "What if what?"  
  
"Nothing Chief. Nothing."  
  
***  
  
"How about if we-- uh . . . no."  
  
"The potatoes are boiling over," Blair pointed out helpfully.  
  
***  
  
"Uh . . ."  
  
Blair looked up from his plate. "Uh, what?"  
  
"Nah, won't work," Jim muttered, taking another savage bite of meatloaf.  
  
"Well I'm glad you're giving this some thought."  
  
***  
  
A strong hand shook him awake. Blinking, Blair raised his head.  
  
"Chief? You awake?" Jim's dark hovering shape asked.  
  
"Yes Jim?" he replied somewhat muzzily.  
  
"Couldn't we . . ." Jim whispered. "I don't know Chief, just try again?"  
  
Suddenly completely awake Blair sat up. "Try again? It's . . ." he squinted at the alarm clock  
trying to make out the numbers without his glasses. "One a.m. and that's your idea? Your third  
solution? It sounds just like your solution! Are you crazy or do you think *I* am to do this all  
over again?"  
  
The large shadowy shape shrugged. "Well, things are different now. Now we know."  
  
Blair's eyes adjusted to the dark and he was able to make out Jim's expression by moonlight.   
"And knowing is half the battle Jim?" he asked incredulously. "You're quoting G.I. Joe at one  
fucking a.m. in the morning? I've got to be dreaming," he told himself aloud, flopping back on the  
bed and covering his face with a pillow "Next we'll have Lash entering my room dressed as  
Cobra."  
  
Jim pulled the pillow out of his hands. "No Chief, it actually makes sense."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
The detective sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Think about this with your amazing  
brain for a second."  
  
"Amazing huh?" Sandburg repeated, amused.  
  
"Just think will you?" Jim demanded in exasperation. "If we go into this without the dissertation,  
without time limits, without one person being for one goal and-and the other being for . . . um,  
something else. If we don't divide ourselves into parts, separate Sentinel from detective, from  
friend . . .If we go in conscious of what happened . . ." he trailed of expectantly, waiting for Blair  
to fill in the blanks.  
  
"What? We'll make better choices? Behave like considerate human beings? Bot stop making  
insanely stupid choices and mistakes? Apologize more quickly? Think before we speak and act?   
Take time to talk? You're advocating talking? You seriously think this will work?!"  
  
Pulling himself up stiffly, Jim said "Well, we've been talking for the past day and it hasn't killed  
me." *Wounded me, yes.* he admitted silently to himself. *But no more than I've deserved.*  
  
"Though it was a close thing with that batter," Blair teased, sitting up again. Jim reached out and  
gently cuffed his partner. Blair smiled and the words were out before he could stop them. "I've  
missed that." He froze and then swallowed hard. He hadn't meant to say that, to admit that to  
Jim. It would give Ellison the advantage, and *dammit he wasn't crawling back to the man to  
have this shit happen all over again!* But his mouth seemed to have been disconnected from his  
brain. "I've missed you." Blair said in a soft hesitant voice. "But I'm not going to do this again  
James, not if, *if* I'm dead last on your list, when you treat perps better than you treat me, when  
every damn person at the PD gets more consideration than I do. I can't. I won't. Not for  
anything, the Sentinel/Guide thing be damned. Incacha's gift be damned."  
  
Jim blinked. *God, that sounded like a confession. Forgive me father for I have sinned, I've  
killed people, broken every commandment, broken my best friend . . . He no longer cares about  
what he spent his whole life searching for. He's reached his limit, Ellison. He'll go no further  
with this, not at this price, not for you.*  
  
*You've demanded and taken too much. He has nothing left to give you.*  
  
The Sentinel reached out and gently, hesitantly laid one hand on the back of his Guide's neck,  
pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. Blair shuddered under his hand as if the touch  
shocked him like static electricity.   
  
"I'm sorry Blair. For-for not saying the right words. I'm so sorry."  
  
"I know, I'm sorry too," he replied with a quick nod, before looking and pulling away, deeply  
uncomfortable with the gesture where just several weeks ago he would have grinned at Jim  
wholly and without reserve.  
  
"Can we-can we start over?" Jim asked, practically begged not caring a whit for his pride. This  
was Blair, and Blair didn't judge people on their "being a man." "Do things differently? Please,  
Chief. One . . " he swallowed hard. "One last try."  
  
"Maybe," he said quietly. "I think so,"  
  
The detective nodded several times, anxiously glad he'd gotten some sort of agreement out of his  
best friend. "That's good, maybe is good, thinking so is good," he agreed quickly.  
  
Blair laughed. "God Jim, we're totally screwed man." The laughter had a desperate, hysterical  
edge to it and before Jim could stop him Blair had pushed past him to stand before the glass door  
in his room leading out to the deck. He pressed clenched fists to his temples and forced the  
laughter to stop. "I don't think I can ever go through this again Jim."  
  
"Chief, it won't, *I* won't! Not ever again. Please--" Jim said desperately, deeply afraid. Blair,  
his Blair was falling apart before his eyes and there seemed nothing he could say or do to make it  
better. Nothing he did helped. He'd failed as a friend, as a Sentinel, as *what did Blair call  
him after Lash? Blessed Protector?* --he'd failed as that too; he failed as partner and roommate.   
He'd failed as a human being. In every conceivable way he'd crushed this man, and now staring at  
the pieces Jim could only mourn.  
  
Tucking his arms around his frail body, hugging himself tightly, Blair continued in a matter-of-fact  
voice. "The first time I came here I was losing it. Post traumatic stress, paranoia, flashbacks,  
panic attacks, nightmares, all that crap. The thing I have with heights and guns, that *comes*  
from somewhere man, I'm not a spineless goober," Blair said with a fond grin. Jim winced,  
remembering when he'd called Blair that, along with other unflattering names. More jokes.   
"After Iraq . . ." there was a hitch in his voice, and Jim could only listen in stunned silence as his  
friend continued. "I signed out of that hospital as soon as I could walk, and ran as far as I could,  
as fast as I could until Jack found me and dragged me here. He was just as messed up as me,  
really. Two totally fucked up people hanging on to each other for dear life, trying like hell not to  
drown." He leaned his head against the glass, tapping one fist against the window pane in a slow  
rhythm. "I celebrated my 20th birthday here. It was a year early but he let me get drunk anyway.   
He said, he said anyone that could put up w-with what happened and n-not break deserved a  
drink," he barely forced out. "And here I am again," he finished with a whisper.  
  
"Is the water still nice?"  
  
Blair whirled around at Jim's near inaudible question, eyes wide with disbelief. *He couldn't have  
just said I'm hearing things!*  
  
But Jim just sat there, silently waiting for an answer. *Oh God, please let this be true. If he says  
this and then changes his mind I will die, I will kill him and then I'll die. God please let this be  
my something.* "Not really," he whispered back with a self-decrepitating smile as he hugged his  
arms tighter around his torso. "It never has been," he admitted hoarsely.  
  
James shook his head. "I don't care," he said simply.  
  
And Blair lost it, because he couldn't believe, couldn't believe that this was happening, that Jim  
wasn't just leaving him here to deal with this like he always had, as he did in every single dream  
since the very beginning. It was unbelievable, something out of a pipedream. And with a sound  
somewhere between a sob and a laugh, heart breaking, Blair sagged down against the door until  
he sat huddled on the floor, eyes wet with unshed tears.  
  
*Now I can ask, now.*  
  
"Then help me, please," he begged brokenly easing his arms from around his chest revealing to  
Jim the blood staining his white undershirt. "It hurts."  
  
Jim was down on his knees before him, hands hovering over the wound, the crossbow bolt still  
impaled between his Guide's ribs, face as pale as the moon, frantic. "Oh God, Chief . . .!"  
  
("I, *we* walk more than one world!")  
  
Risking everything, Blair reached out and took Jim's hand in his and brought it to the bolt.  
"Please," he pleaded. If Jim didn't mean this, taking the bolt out would kill him, he knew it down  
in his soul  
  
Nodding once, sharply, Jim wrapped his hand around the weapon, trying to still the shaking of his  
limb so that he wouldn't hurt his Guide more than he had to.   
  
With one swift motion he tore the thin piece of wood from his Guide's heart.  
  
Blair howled like the wolf he was, a keening sound of anguish that caused all of Jim's senses to  
spike: hearing, smell, touch, sight, *God, even taste!*   
  
Dropping the bolt, and clapping his hands over his ears, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for  
the noise to stop. When it finally did, Jim leaned over his partner, frantic with worry.   
  
"Chief! Blair!" he called.  
  
*Oh God, oh please, not again!* But there was a heartbeat, even though Sandburg's eyes were  
closed. *Thank you, God. Thank you.* He pulled up the undershirt and stared at the body  
wound. He couldn't see any more fresh blood, that had to be good, right? "Blair!" he tried again,  
gently shaking his friend, who stubbornly remained oblivious to the world. Deciding it was a lost  
cause he moved Blair back onto the bed and then rushed to the bathroom to get a washcloth.   
Gently cleaning the wound he decided not to bandage it, for some reason it no longer bled, but  
dragged the undershirt off his Guide and tucked the limp, too thin body under the covers.  
  
Sitting down on the floor beside the bed, arms resting on the mattress, in one fist the physical  
evidence of their betrayal, he remained that way the rest of the night, quietly and contentedly  
watching Blair breathe.  
  
***  
  
Blair blinked once and stretched minutely under the covers before turning and fixing his eyes on   
his partner as if he'd known that Jim would be there waiting. "Morning."  
  
"How are you feeling?" Jim asked.  
  
Typical Sandburg-- ignoring the question he sat up and stretched cautiously, before looking down  
at his chest and running his fingertips over the healed scar above his heart. "You want breakfast?"   
  
"Pancakes, Chief?" Jim queried with a raised eyebrow as both of them stood.  
  
Blair smiled slightly. "I figure we'll get it right eventually."  
  
*Eventually. Well wasn't that their motto in life?* Jim thought with an inward smile. "With  
chocolate chips? And cream?" There was no denying the hopeful tone in Ellison's voice. Blair  
walked towards the window to gaze out at the ocean; Jim's good humor vanishing as he noticed  
for the first time the thin white lines that marred the skin of his Guide's back and stomach, wrists  
and inner elbows.   
  
He hadn't expected Blair of all people to wear the marks of torture on his body. Jim had seen  
what techniques could be used to create those types of scars during his Black Ops days. He didn't  
want to think of Blair in such circumstance. He had enough nightmares over simple things  
concerning Blair: driving, riding along with him, walking.  
  
He was surprised that after three years he could still be so clueless. For someone with such liberal  
ideas, Blair had always had a surprising degree of body shyness, all those undershirts and flannel  
shirts. *I guess it was more than just the cold that prompted those layers,* Jim realized feeling  
somewhat sick, no longer really in the mood for pancakes, but if his Guide was making them for  
him . . .  
  
Blair snorted. "If we have any cream left."  
  
A low growl turned Jim's attention to the foot of the bed. There, in all his lazy glory, sprawled  
the black jaguar looking like he'd just drank a bowl of cream himself. *We better have some left,*  
Jim thought felling slightly comforted now that the jaguar was here, appetite returning. *We're  
hungry.*  
  
Blair pulled on Jim's discarded robe from the floor and tied it loosely around his middle before  
heading for the door, taking a short detour to scritch the cat's ears absently.  
  
Jim watched in bemused shock. *Well, he did say he could see the panther,* he reminded himself.  
The spirit animal rolled over and began to purr and kneed the covers.   
  
Ellison scowled at the creature. "Don't get any ideas," he warned it as he saw the inches long  
obsidian claws prepare to puncture the comforter. "We are not going to mess this up, you hear  
me?" he asked sharply grabbing the creatures muzzle and staring into the golden eyes, showing it  
the bloody crossbow bolt as evidence. "This is too important. This is the most important thing.   
The most important thing."  
  
The cat snarled and then with dignity hopped off the bed and vanished.  
  
It was a beginning, Jim decided.  
  
***  
  
Jim headed out into the kitchen but Blair wasn't there. Quickly slipping on a denim shirt, he half  
buttoned the thing before running out onto the beach after his friend.  
  
Blair stood facing the ocean, hands clasped in fists, spine straight as a rod. Ellison slowed down  
and stood behind his friend, just to the left when Sandburg used to stand behind him.  
  
*Well there's an image to ponder for our work relationship,* He thought with a wince *Carolyn  
would be proud.* His ex-wife was always asking him to talk about their relationship, how it made  
him feel, what it reminded him of, what deeper connections he saw. Jim used to think it was  
crazy. With Sandburg though, crazy had a whole new meaning, a new, higher threshold to cross  
before Jim drew the line.   
  
"I thought you were going to make breakfast Chief." The detective said teasingly. The mood  
was thick; he didn't want Blair to worry when he wasn't feeling well. When Sandburg worried, he  
took care of himself even less than usual.  
  
"What do we do now?" Blair asked abruptly, voice tight, body tight.  
  
"What? Like right now?"   
  
"Yeah." Blair turned to look at him. "What do you think?"  
  
Jim ran one hand through his hair. "Well . . . honestly?" At Sandburg's nod he continued. "*I*  
think we should go inside and have breakfast, and then you should take your pills and go back to  
sleep. That cold, bronchitis thing is hanging on for too long," He reached out and grasped the  
younger man by the shoulders, cocking his head and listening intently. "It might be pneumonia,"  
he said, clenching his jaw. "I'll have to call a doctor to come check, but I think--"  
  
"Whoa!" Blair raised his hands to halt the flow of uncharacteristic words. "That's not what I  
meant."  
  
"Long term really isn't on my mind right now," Jim admitted. "Need to get you well first."  
  
"And then?" Blair pressed, eyes narrowing as if waiting for something, waiting for him to pull the  
rug out from under his feet no doubt, Ellison realized sadly. *How bad are things that he doesn't  
even trust me? I was the one going on and on about trust, but I never noticed how lacking I was  
in the trustworthy department, the reliable department, the not-abandon-and-destroy-my-friends  
department.*  
  
The detective took a deep breath. "And then *we* decide what *we* want to do." Blair let  
himself slowly be led away from the waves that so captured his attention. This fixation with water  
was starting to scare the Sentinel. *Don't want Blair to get any ideas that he should have stayed  
dead, stayed drowned. Uh-uh, no fucking way!*  
  
"I've gotta defend my dissertation in a couple of days."  
  
"Then you should rest."  
  
Blair looked up at Ellison suddenly, halting their progress. "What about you? Shouldn't you go  
back to work?"  
  
"Work? Who needs work?"   
  
Sandburg pulled away and stared at the taller man. "Who are you and what have you done with  
James Ellison? Be warned, I will withhold pancakes to get the answers I want."  
  
"Remember those serviceable aliens Chief?" the detective asked lightly. "The ones who would  
replace my brain?"  
  
"Yeeeess," Blair said slowly.  
  
The Sentinel grinned. "Serviceable spirit guides."  
  
The anthropologist sighed and continued walking. "This doesn't magically fix everything, and I  
haven't actually agreed to anything."  
  
"I know," Ellison said gently. "I'm . . . glad it doesn't."  
  
"You are?" Blair asked incredulously.  
  
Ellison pushed open the door. "Because this time around I'll get to know you. This time I'm  
researching *you.*"  
  
"Oh really?" he asked archly.  
  
"Uh-huh," Jim nodded pulling out the frying pan and handing it to his friend. "The Shaman, a  
monograph by James Joseph Ellison. I think it has a nice ring to it."  
  
"What about tests? I'm not doing any tests," Blair said shaking his head dramatically. "No way.   
Not me."   
  
"No tests," Jim said in all innocence. "Just think of me as an observer."  
  
What about objectivity? Control subjects?" Blair pressed, easily falling into their verbal sparring  
as he mixed batter.  
  
"Objectivity isn't all it's cracked up to be," the detective said with a shrug as he pulled in the  
blender and began mixing the sludge his partner liked for breakfast. "Going native sounds  
interesting."  
  
Blair turned around, suddenly serious. "In my world?"  
  
"In *our* world," Jim corrected. "Deep water isn't so bad alone."  
  
"No, it's not," Blair agreed quietly, remembering Jim's fear of being out in water too far from  
land. He'd felt anxious, disconnected. It took all his concentration to remain focused. Jim *was*  
trying.  
  
*But for how long will this last?* Blair thought, deeply afraid.  
  
Jim nudged him in the shoulder. "C'mon kid, you owe me pancakes."  
  
"I do?"  
  
"Uh-huh. Courtship rituals y'know," the detective reminded him.  
  
***  
  
They were eating out on the wrap-around deck; Jim was finally *eating* the promised pancakes,  
Blair some fruit salad and an aalge shake.   
  
The anthropologist looked down at his food and smiled to himself. Courtship rituals. Jim had  
prepared his shake while he had made the pancakes. They had moved around the unfamiliar  
kitchen just as they used to do around the loft on the good days. It was a funny feeling he  
decided, watching Ellison try, desperately try to make amends. It made him feel important.   
  
*No, important isn't the word. Maybe, wanted?* That sounded closer. Wanted. What an odd  
sensation. It was definitely something new. Oh, he knew Naomi wanted him otherwise he  
wouldn't have been born or she wouldn't have eventually come back weeks, sometimes months  
late after leaving with a friend for the evening or the weekend. The house all to himself, Blair had  
learned early on how to be independent. Sometimes people watched him. Mostly his guardians  
were off getting drunk, partying, protesting, in jail because they were protesting, off having sex,  
debating theoretical issues. There wasn't really much watching, let alone active *wanting*  
involved. Not like with Jim.  
  
Ellison watched him. There was no such thing as privacy in a Sentinel's home, but Jim was  
actually very considerate in that area, they'd never had troubles there surprisingly. But now,  
maybe, James watched him because he cared? That was a nice thought, Blair decided tentatively  
as he bit down on a piece of strawberry. And maybe Ellison wanted him around, maybe he was  
really sorry for what he had done with Alex, hell, the last three years off and on. Maybe they  
could start over.  
  
Maybe.  
  
No way was he jumping right back into things on the *possibility* that sincere words might equal  
sincere deeds. Naomi had taught him by example that lesson.  
  
("Honey, I'm just going out for the night, there's plenty of food in the fridge. Tomorrow we'll go   
to the zoo. How does that sound?")  
  
("I promise if you just hang in there and graduate this year from high school I'll make sure you'll  
get into a good university. 14 years old and a college student! I'm so proud!")  
  
("Oh don't worry about your book! I can pick it up tomorrow and you can use it on you report  
baby. Just leave it to me.")  
  
("Blair, your lunch money will be on the table in the morning.")   
  
("I promise Blair, that we'll stay long enough for you to finish the school year. No taking off this  
time.")  
  
Naomi meant well. She always meant well, but usually there was no money, no book, no steady  
school, no trip to the zoo, and he had to wait two years before he'd finally just decided to cut the  
apron strings and take care of his own education and his own life, his mother's wishes and  
wheeling words be damned.  
  
Naomi hadn't talked to him for four years after he'd insisted at last on putting down tentative roots  
and starting at Rainier.  
  
And now Jim had his own set of words, of promises. James Ellison, man of action.  
  
It was seriously freaking him out. Now he understood what they guys at Major Crimes meant  
when they said that the Sandburg Zone was weird.  
  
"Ahhh!" Jim murmured in near ecstasy breaking his train of thought.   
  
Ellison turned his taste dial waaaay up and his hearing rose a notch as well. Blair was breathing  
funny and it wasn't just the post-fountain-Lazarus stuff that was causing it. "Hey," he said  
abruptly.  
  
Blair's head jerked up, eyes wide like a deer's caught in headlights, or maybe a wolf . . .  
  
"Deep thoughts, Chief?" Jim reached out and grabbed the whipped cream can and after shaking it,  
squirted a ton of white confectionary on Blair's fruit.  
  
Blair looked down and scowled at the artificial white cloud of cream that now sat nobly on his  
food. "You have completely ruined the whole point behind eating fruit for breakfast, you know."  
He picked up his fork, however and dug in with more relish.  
  
"You need to eat more Sandburg," Jim put in. "You're getting so thin I could bench press you."  
  
Blair snorted into the cream. "Hardly an achievement. You could bench press me before."  
  
"True," Jim said smugly. Blair shot him a dirty look that bordered on teasing. Jim's expression  
turned slightly serious. "I want you to know, we don't have to push this. I don't want to rush  
you."  
  
Sandburg burst out laughing. "Man, this sounds like some sort of romantic comedy. One of  
those chick flicks. If someone came over and heard that they would be thinking all sorts of things  
about us."  
  
Jim shook his head and growled in mock anger. "Sandburg . . ." he said warningly.  
  
"Sorry, sorry," Blair said chucking. "Enough with the analogies and innuendos."  
  
"Just for the record, I want to say I have no romantic intentions on your person Sandburg," Jim  
announced solemnly, causing Blair to chuckle, stabbing a piece of his breakfast with a fork. "That  
is one part of your life I don't want anything to do with. I've seen you in the morning and I pity  
the woman that marries you."  
  
"Well not all of us can be morning people." Blair smiled.  
  
"You have been lately."  
  
The student shrugged staring ut at the ocean, missing Jim's worried look. "Things are different  
lately."  
  
"I just--" Jim broke off, working the words over in his mind. "I just don't want you getting  
yourself all tangled up in that twisty mind of yours. You'll get yourself into a panic over nothing.   
You're not well enough to do that."  
  
"Well enough?" Blair asked. "Why? What are you senses picking up?"  
  
Unfortunately his hearing went up another notch almost automatically at those words, and he  
heard the approach of a person on foot. Swallowing, Jim said "Think we got company, Chief."  
  
Blair looked up, curious "Yeah?"  
  
ding dong  
  
Blair stood up at the sound of the doorbell and then glanced back down at Jim, patience wearing  
thin, his eyes yelling *Who? Who?* "Just one person," Jim said cautiously. He knew who it was.   
  
*Get a grip Ellison. The man has every right to see Blair. He helped Sandburg, he cares about  
him, that's gotta be worth something. Don't be a territorial prick!*  
  
Quickly rounding the corner of the house, Blair yelled in surprise. "Jack!"  
  
The colonel looked up from the front window he'd been peering in."Blair," he greeted with a  
smile, coming over to hug the man. "Hey, how are ya kid? For crying out loud, Jacobs, have  
you been eating?" He shook the kid slightly by the shoulders. "I thought you said you had  
someone to look out for yo--" Looking over Blair's shoulder O'Neill caught sight of Detective  
Ellison and his tone became cautious. "Oh. Uh . . . I sort of figured you might be here," he  
explained sheepishly.  
  
"You here officially?" Jim asked idly as Blair looked back and forth between the two men, wary.   
Blair stilled inside. He wouldn't let Jack be hurt, no matter what Jim wanted. He and O'Neill  
shared too much. Jack knew him inside and out. Four months in prison can do that to you. But  
he couldn't let Jim be taken, Jim was his best friend, even after all that had happened. He felt torn.  
  
O'Neill glanced sharply at Blair. *Man the kid was losing it, major panic attack ahead. Shit!   
Shouldn't this Ellison be doing something? We can't fight about this now, Blair hardly looks  
stable.* "Do I look official Detective?" Jack replied in his most open friendly tone, spreading his  
arms and revealing his jeans, black shirt, leather bomber jacket identical to Sandburg's, and black  
baseball cap. *What does Jacob see in this guy? Sheesh! He's arctic! The original Iceman.*  
  
Ellison stared at the man, conflicting emotions warring within him, but in the end it came down to  
one simple lesson he learned over the past few days. Blair had his own life that he *chose* to  
share with others. Jack O'Neill had helped Blair, cared for him before Jim had even met him.   
Blair considered Jack a friend. And didn't he want to know just who Blair's friends were? Not to  
tell him what to do, but to know more about his partner? Didn't he want to treat Blair with the  
same respect he gave Simon and Joel and all the people at work? Didn't Sandburg *deserve*  
that?  
  
That and Blair looked ready to hyperventilate.  
  
"No," the detective finally said. "And it's Jim," he added reaching out to shake the other man's  
hand.  
  
"Jack," the airman offered, infinitely glad the man had some sense. "Are those pancakes I smell  
Blair?" he wondered with a gleam in his eyes as the three of them headed towards the table.  
  
"Get your own," Jim growled half heartedly causing Blair to chuckle, relief evident on his face,  
leaving him shaky as the three of them took their seats and Jack helped himself to breakfast.  
  
"Don't mind him, he never learned to share," Blair commented as he sipped his sludge-like drink.  
  
"Fuck you Sandburg," Jim retorted good-naturedly.  
  
Wiping his mouth on a napkin, Blair turned to his old comrade in arms. "So did you come all the  
way from Colorado Springs and the exciting world of *radio telemetry research,*" Blair  
delivered that particular military line of bullshit with only a twinkle in his eye. "to mooch food or  
what?"  
  
"I wish," Jack moaned theatrically as he inhaled the aroma of the coffee. Suddenly serious he  
laced his fingers around the mug and stared intently at the two of them. "We need your help."  
  
the end  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
More to come. I promise. Might be a while because I'm having to send my computer through the  
mail while I move/fly to my new residence, but I am working on it! Promise. Feedback makes  
me big and strong! a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com Detailed feedback about what you liked in this  
monster will help me write an even better story! Hopefully dialogue and characters were okay, I  
agonized long and hard over some of the scenes and would be interested to know what worked.  
:) And does anyone want to know what the MC gang is doing at this time? Write and let me  
know, I might have a story just about their trip back to Cascade. 


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